


The Copperbeech Identity

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Death, Espionage, F/M, Minor Original Character(s), Molly Hooper Appreciation, Moriarty's Web, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft-centric (sorta), Mystery, Post HLV, Relationship(s), Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Team Sherlock, casefic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:43:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4307304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has been saved from exile by Moriarty's apparent return. </p><p>As reasons to be grateful go, he deems his rather perverse. </p><p>But with Molly Hooper missing and the panic level in London rising, the game is on... </p><p>Post HLV, basically my version of Season 4. Eventual Sherlolly, all sorts of espionage fun and games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Road of Gold

Disclaimer: This fan-fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.

* * *

**PROLOGUE: THE ROAD OF GOLD**

* * *

**_Jackson Crescent, off the Old Compton Rd._ **

**_April 12th 2016, 11.55 pm_ **

Mycroft Holmes knows that he is dying.

He knows that he is dying because he can see  _her_  face.

He's sprawled in an alley off the Old Compton Road, the rain lashing his skin, his suit soaked with blood and water. The woman who shot him stands in front of him, her small, silhouetted form dark against the garish, dirty wash of the lane's only streetlight.

Somewhere to his right he can hear loud music, the raucous laughter of drunken idiots trying to fight off the weekend's demise. The music is so deafening it pulses in the night, seems to make the air itself vibrate though Mycroft will allow that that may simply be the blood-loss talking. (He has, after all, been shot three times in the chest. Blood-loss is to be expected in such dire circumstances.) He can feel his heart thundering, quickening his demise. Though he tries to calm himself, he knows it's not working, his infamous self-control apparently for naught on one of the few occasions it has actually mattered-

The woman who shot him takes a single, determined step towards him, and once again it occurs to Mycroft that he is going to die.

He really doesn't want to, that's all he can think. He doesn't want to leave the people he loves alone.

But then he doubts any of the people he's killed over the years wanted to die either, and look how much good the thought did them.

 _Man plans, God laughs, isn't that what they say?_ he muses wryly and he can't help it, his mouth twitches into something which would, at any other time, be a smile.

He tries to laugh and ends up hacking, his chest squeezed as painfully as if it were held in a vice.

"I will make it quick," the woman says then, and Mycroft can recognise professional courtesy when he hears it. He wishes that he could say as much, but his fine motor control appears to be slipping.

All he can do is hack and cough, his chest and eyes burning.

He suspects, however, that she understands.

So he concentrates, tries to calm his breathing: If he is to die, it will not be in panic and fear.  _He is Mycroft Holmes, and that is not how he will leave this life._

So he stiffens his spine. Composes himself. His umbrella lies, adrift and lonely, a few inches away from his right hand and though he knows it's ridiculous-  _he has more than enough to be getting on with_ \- he would rather like it back. Having something to grip would make him feel better as he prepares to go softly, etc. etc. etc. He tries to reach out for it- he can't even sit up- but all the attempt does is send pain jack-knifing through him, and once again he thinks of his imminent termination.

This is not the first time he has suspected it might happen, but it is the first time he has been certain in quite some time.

It's the being able to see  _her_  face that's doing it.

But then, if it is the last thing he gets to see he can count it as the gift that it is.

He feels the touch of the woman who shot him against his brow then. She's placed her gun's muzzle directly against his forehead. She's kneeling on his gun-hand, unwilling to trust him even now.  _Clever woman,_ he thinks.  _I wish mine were half as good._  He frowns, trying to keep his eyes open. Better he die here than attempt to live through torture, he thinks. Better to die than to live to betray who he is. His knowledge might be lost too, but that is no dire consequence…

In fact, perhaps that is the better outcome for all concerned.

He hears the trigger cocked, feels the cool metal against his skin. From somewhere very far away he hears laughter, feels the press of strings beneath his fingers as he tries to play a chord. He can see  _her_  face, can hear the lilt of her voice, can smell her perfume and he knows he's going to die… He always knew she was the last thing his mind would witness...

He thinks he's murmuring her name, a road of gold stretching out before him even as the gunshot snaps through the night like a curt word.

He twitches, his body no longer his, and then all is silence and stillness and rain.


	2. All Quiet In Hundred Acre

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE: ALL QUIET IN HUNDRED ACRE**

* * *

**_Pathology Lab 3,_ **

**_St. Bart's Hospital_ **

_**Six Months Earlier…** _

"Did you miss me?"

Molly Hooper freezes, horrified, her eyes on the TV screen in front of her.

There's an image there, a man she knew- or at least, once thought she knew- and he's smiling. Gloating. Apparently Very, Very Not Dead, which is not really the sort of thing she wants to discover.

There's audio to go with the footage but it's the sight of Moriarty's grin that glues her to the spot.

The young pathologist lets out a gasp, steps back instinctively-  _Sherlock,_ she thinks, _I've got to talk to Sherlock_ \- and she pulls her phone from her pocket. Pulls up a number she hasn't even looked at in more than a month. She hears a door open behind her, swift footsteps and when she turns she sees a familiar face, smiles in relief as she moves forward-

"There you are," she says, letting out a nervous little giggle. She feels like a ninny. "You gave me such a fright!"

And she moves towards her friend, smiling, relieved to see a familiar face…

This will be the last time Molly Hooper appears on St. Bart's CCTV cameras for approximately four months.

* * *

**_GCHQ Tracking Station 13a (The Mews)_ **

**_123 Carendon Rd._ **

**_10 Minutes Later_ **

"Did you miss me?"

Mycroft can hear Moriarty's words even before he's through the office doors.

They're everywhere, echoing throughout his world and beyond with a grating, insolent insistence that he can't control- no matter how hard he tries. They're on every television screen, every smart-phone. Every laptop and tablet and radio seems to be mocking him, a dead psychopath's words lilting through his environment.

_Did you miss me? Did you miss me, Mr. Holmes?_

_Did you and your brother, your unstable, moronic, brilliant brother miss me? Miss something?_

_And is this gloriously public stunt the resul_ t?

Were he the sort of man who shows emotion then Mycroft might grit his teeth at this constant repetition, the strangely personal tone it feels to have taken. After all, he had thought of bringing Moriarty back for an encore-  _anything to save Sherlock_ \- but he had already dismissed the idea as asinine. He doesn't need it popping up like the ghost of Hamlet's father, ruining all his plans.

Since the elder Holmes isn't the sort of man who goes in for displays of emotion though, he ignores his frustration. Keeps up the bland, calm façade which has served him so well over his years of service.

 _Wouldn't do to show the lower orders when one is rattled_ , he tells himself, eyeing the surveillance team around him.

They all look young. Scared. Not sure what to do. They're civilians and geeks, children kept about for their technical savvy but utterly untrained in actual espionage. Only one of them is even covered to carry a gun.

 _No blood on their hands,_  he thinks wryly,  _not even any GSR._

And now they're looking to him for answers. Looking to his organisation and his prestige and his infamous reputation to assure them that Moriarty, the bogeyman so many of them spent Sherlock's exile fearing, hasn't returned from the dead-

Mycroft slows, taking in all five faces in turn and nodding curtly.

He is reminded, rather strongly, of the few times he attempted to reassure Sherlock as a child.

Comprised of two men and three women, the team is lit by the pale, blue light of a bank of computer screens set against the far wall of the office's high-ceilinged central chamber. They all wear street-clothes and matching, terrified-but-trying-not-to-show-it expressions. Each one is clutching a smart-phone as tightly as the average baby clutches a rattle, as tightly as the average agent used to clutch a gun-

Mycroft gestures tersely to the team's leader, Adi, then and instantly the young man straightens. Nods. Runs a hand nervously through his dreads before realising it and stilling himself.

He looks rather annoyed with himself for showing such tetchiness.

"Project Copper Beech reporting for duty sir, as ordered," he says.

Mycroft does him the courtesy of nodding once. Gesturing to his team. He knows them all well, hand-picked them. These are the people in whose hands he put his brother's safety, the people who watched over Sherlock even before he found his own support system in the Watsons and Mrs. Hudson.

They are the most carefully crafted team Mycroft has ever brought together and right now he needs them to do their best. He needs to know what's been happening in his brother's world. So-

"The response was quick," Mycroft says. "Thank you." He nods to the computer screens, asks the sort of redundant questions one must when seeking to reassure the mundane in one's employ. (They find repetition so soothing). "You've heard?" he says and Adi nods.

Each of his team do likewise.

"It cut over  _Eastenders_ ," the eldest, a redhead named Violet says mildly, wrapping her dark brown cardigan more tightly around her. It swamps her tiny form, making her look far younger than her thirty two years. "No way I could've missed that," she snorts, adding, "It was a bugger getting a baby-sitter at this short notice, by the way.  _Sir_."

Mycroft allows the young woman- among his first recruits for this project- a small, tight smile and inclines his head.

"Well, we know Moriarty's a villain, don't we?" he asks mildly and (as he intended) the team titter in amusement.

It sounds ever so slightly relieved.

"Yeah," Violet says wryly, "but I really  _believe_ it now." She shakes her head. "Inconsiderate bastard."

The team laugh again at that and Mycroft smiles, knowing how such confidence will calm them. Reassure them. It will do them no good, he reminds himself again, to see how rattled the current situation has made him, their nerves will only slow them down.

"How far along are you in getting back online?" he asks and Adi frowns. Gestures to the bank of computers.

Mycroft rather had hoped they'd have made more progress, winding back their surveillance footage to search for anything amiss.

Instead a mere two screens show images, Mrs. Hudson's front room, the older woman sobbing hysterically in an agent's arms; On another John and Mary Watson move frantically through their bedroom, an agent visible through their door, pacing, as they throw clothes into a couple of rucksacks. They're being taken to a government safe-house for the night.

The rest are dark, small green and white waiting signs showing the machine taking time to boot up, the trouble with this project being so recently discontinued.

"We've got eyes on Tigger and Pooh," Adi says, gesturing to the cameras. Those are the Watsons (admittedly ridiculous codenames). "Kanga too, as you can see."  _That would be Mrs. Hudson._  The young man shakes his head. "I assume you've spoken to Christopher Robin-um, Sherlock- sir-"

Mycroft sighs, deigning not to answer that. He is well aware of how this team refer to his brother's circle but as ever he elects to pretend he hasn't noticed: The IT boys have, he has learned to his cost, the oddest sense of humour imaginable. Besides, if he allows that he notices then he has to admit that he knows his designation in this little circus is Eeyore and no good can come of  _that._

_He'd hate to have to have them all executed, just when they're becoming useful._

"We're still waiting for feed from Baker Street and St, Bart's," Adi continues, "Sherlock had just found the latest camera before-"

And he gestures, trying to convey  _before he murdered a man and was exiled_  without having to do anything so uncouth as actually say it.

Mycroft appreciates his diplomacy.

"Yes, well, my baby brother can be a little… fretful about his surveillance," he says. "Starts mouthing off about civil liberties and other such nonsense every time it comes up."

He shakes his head in martyrdom.

"But I'm surprised St. Bart's hasn't come back online, those cameras haven't been disturbed the entire time they've been there-"

"Most were damaged during a leaked pipe flooding three months ago," Violet says tersely.

_Being the surveillance specialist assigned to Molly Hooper, she would know._

She gestures to a blank computer screen. "We had to move the cameras and the agent sent in put most of them too near to the radiology department," she says, "The background noise makes them run slow, interferes with the signal- But it should be up any moment-"

And as if she had personally summoned it the screen blinks into life, a window showing St. Bart's Lab 3 popping up.

The room is completely empty.

Violet mutters to herself and walks over to the computer. Takes her seat. She begins bringing up other windows, her expression perturbed. Mycroft sees the other Bart's pathology labs, the canteen and locker room flashing by in turn.

Violet starts swearing under her breath, her brow furrowed in worry.

"What is it?" Adi asks and she gestures to the screen.

"I can't find Roo," she says, using Hooper's codename rather than her given one.

Mycroft's rather surprised to find her following protocol so tightly but he's not going to complain.

"Is she at home-?" Adi asks just as Violet starts bringing up images from Dr. Hooper's flat.

It is empty, save for her cat.

"Ping her phone, would you, Dan?" Adi says, addressing another member of the team, this one a thin, blond rail of a man whose arms are covered in tattoos, a wisp of a moustache hovering on his lip.

Dan does as he's told, disappearing off to another terminal before shaking his head. "Phone says she's in Bart's, boss," he says.

"Well she isn't," Violet snaps.

The young man actually looks offended.

"No need to bite my head off, Vi," he says and the redhead throws him an apologetic look.

"Sorry," she mutters. "I'm just worried. If Roo's off-camera then anything could have happened-"

She starts closing down the camera-shot windows and clicks open another file. After a moment a box appears and she types in a password, another window filling the screen. Footage winds backwards, the time-stamp at the image's corner counting down; Doctor Hooper appears at last, the young pathologist moving backwards away from Lab 3's door.

For a moment she stops still, stares at something, her face a mask of horror-

"Time-frame's when the Moriarty broadcast went out," Dan helpfully supplies and Mycroft cocks an eyebrow at him.

_As if that weren't bloody obvious._

"Do we have eyes on the corridor outside the lab?" he asks instead and Violet frowns, starts typing furiously again. After a few moments the view from Bart's entrance camera fills the screen, then the various service entrances. Each image is time-stamped for approximately three minutes after Dr. Hooper's disappearance and each one shows nothing out of the ordinary.

 _It is,_ Mycroft muses,  _rather frustrating._

"She can't have disappeared," Violet mutters, running back through each location. "A person doesn't just up and evaporate into thin ai-"

"There." Mycroft taps her sharply on the shoulder, speaking over her. "Go back one," he says and she dutifully clicks back through the cameras to the one which show's Bart's ambulance bay. A gurney is pushed into view, its patient covered in a sheet as a hospital porter manoeuvres her- it is obviously a her- towards a parked ambulance.

The porter keeps his head down as he does it, obviously familiar with where the bay's cameras are. He opens the back of a waiting ambulance and lifts the patient on the gurney up, placing her inside. He then hops out and, pulling down his dark blue porter's jumpsuit until it sits around his waist, shrugs on a paramedic's jacket stolen from the ambulance's rear. A blue baseball cap completes the look as he hops into the front of the ambulance, putting it into gear and pulling smoothly out of the parking bay, into traffic.

It all takes less than a minute, the work brisk. No-nonsense. Professional.

Mycroft likes this realisation not one bit.

Violet swears a little under her breath, her annoyance at her charge's fate plain to see. "I have to go out there," she announces, standing and turning to Mycroft.

Upright she comes to just above his sternum.

"Sir," she says, "permission to join this investigation in the field, acting as team liaison-"

She looks over at Adi in a rather belated attempt to ask permission from her superior officer but before he can answer Mycroft's phone goes off.

He glances at the text, neither impressed nor surprised by what he's seeing.

_Am outside, let me in. I know about Molly._ _**SH** _

A man less familiar with his brother's timing would wonder whether there could be a worse time for Sherlock to butt in but Mycroft Holmes is not that man-

And so, with a martyred sigh he elects to invite his baby brother in.


	3. Give My Regards To Winston Smith

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Thanks for her reviews goes to icecat62. Enjoy! 

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO: GIVE MY REGARDS TO WINSTON SMITH**

* * *

**_GCHQ Tracking Station 13a (The Mews)_ **

**_123 Carendon Rd._ **

**_Maybe… Three seconds later?_ **

Truth be told, Sherlock's a little… disappointed.

After all, when one encounters the Orwellian mob which has been watching you for the last decade, one expects a certain… je ne sais quo. A certain mystique. A fortress-like building, perhaps, or terribly manly-looking agents doing terribly manly-looking things. Futuristic costumes. The odd death ray.

One doesn't expect to find a group who could essentially be the IT department of any major office, shifting about and looking gormless as he walks in-

And yet, that is exactly what he finds.

For as he enters the room- his arrival preceded by Mycroft's trademark "Why Me, Oh Lord?" sigh- Sherlock sees a group of five, well… Nerds. There really is no other word for them. They're all dressed in their kind's trademark uniform of jeans, ironic t-shirt and a pallor which is only possible when you never see actual daylight.

The tallest, a whippet-thin young black man with a mass of dreadlocked hair and a Star Trek t-shirt steps forward, extends one massive hand to shake and though Sherlock's not inclined to civility he elects to behave himself. He wants these people to help him find Molly and John's always going on about getting off on the right foot, so-

"You're team leader?" he asks the young man by way of greeting, partly to skip any tired small-talk he may be inclined to inflict on him, and partly because he knows damn well this will annoy his brother. (Mycroft is always the senior officer in any secret service mission).

The young man obviously doesn't realise Holmes senior is being needled though, he merely smiles and nods. "Yeah," he says brightly. "I'm Adi. I-"

He shakes his head sheepishly, throws a look around at the rest of his team.

They all shift from foot to foot, the very definition of "socially awkward," and inwardly Sherlock sighs.

He has dealt with his… fans before.

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes," Adi is saying. "It's just… I've been your data analyst for four years: It's an honour to finally meet you." He winces. "Though obviously I wish it were under better circumstances."

Sherlock's opinion of such maudlin sentiment must show on his face because Adi clears his throat. Straightens up.

He shoots another look at his team.

"Mr. Holmes- the other Mr. Holmes-" he corrects himself, inclining his head towards Mycroft- "he told us that you've already discovered that Roo- I mean, Dr. Hooper- is missing."

Sherlock gives a single, curt nod, unwilling to investigate why the other man's words regarding Molly bring a certain… tightness to his chest, a tightness which might almost be characterised as worry.

"Yes," he says stiffly, making sure to keep his tone even and disinterested. Wouldn't do to set Mycroft sniffing around his feelings (or lack thereof) regarding the diminutive pathologist.  _Not again._  "John and Mary suggested I pop around- She'd be the most like candidate to be taken, were Moriarty or one of his lieutenants involved.

I thought I'd best check."

He doesn't mention that the thought of seeing Molly again, having spent the last few days knowing he'd either be jailed for life, executed or sent into exile, had put a bounce to his step which even Anthea had recognised (and snickered about).

Just as he doesn't mention that realising she was nowhere in St. Bart's but had only recently-  _and quickly_ \- been taken had set something dark and panicky wriggling round about the location of his belly.

No, he doesn't mention these things because he's damn well not thinking of them, he doesn't care what John says, and he won't have this crowd of social misfits prying into them either-

He can feel Mycroft's gaze practically boring into his brain but he elects to try for nonchalance.

 _It's really all he has left, at this juncture_.

"When I realised Molly was missing," he says, "I thought it best I get in touch with my darling brother." This time he smiles sharply at Mycroft. Said darling brother narrows his eyes. "After all, if you want to know a secret you'd best ask the secret-keeper-"

At this two of the team, a tiny red-haired woman in a massive brown cardigan grins and holds her hand out to tattoo-covered blond man.

He scowls but fishes in his jeans pockets, hands her a twenty.

"Sorry," the young woman tells Sherlock, "but Dan here swore you didn't know we had cameras in St. Bart's." She holds up the twenty, gives Sherlock a sharp, tight smile. "Thanks for buying me dinner."

The young blond man- Dan- continues to mutter vindictively under his breath, only quieting when Adi cocks a warning eyebrow at him.

"Sorry, boss," he mumbles. He shuffles over to his computer terminal. "I'll see if I can find anything on that ambulance that took Dr. Hooper-"

"You've already got a lead?" Sherlock demands and Mycroft's smile turns acidic.

"Of course they have, little brother," he says. "I only employ the best, after all." He nods to the redhead who'd so recently had her windfall. "Violet, why don't you go through what we have with Sherlock?" He sniffs. "I'll get the rest of the team up to speed…"

And with that he gestures to Adi, Dan, a compact, dark-skinned woman wearing a gypsy skirt and  _Spiderman_  t-shirt and a burly heavy-set woman in Goth makeup who looks vaguely familiar though Sherlock can't place her. It seems she answers to the name of Squeak, while her counterpart answers to the name of Lakhi.  _This is, apparently, The Team._  They scuttle off into a corner to start collating data, as if these people would put together anything about Molly quicker than Sherlock-

"Would you like to have a seat, Mr. Holmes?" Violet asks. She nods to the stool beside her. "I can get you up to speed on what Roo- I mean, Dr. Hooper- was doing when she was taken."

Her lips tighten, her face set to a frown.

"And then hopefully we can do something about it."

Sherlock takes the seat offered and the young woman begins bringing up surveillance footage, showing him Molly stopping and staring- presumably at the Moriarty footage- before smiling and walking out of camera-shot, into the hall beyond.

"She knew her abductor?" he asks and Violet nods darkly.

"Yeah," she says. "She did. Which probably means it's not Moriarty." She sighs, throws him a look. She rakes a hand through her hair and Sherlock notes the small bits of porridge around her nape, telltale signs of a small child at home. "Not that any of us really thought it was," she continues, "but she's a friendly woman so her knowing her kidnapper doesn't exactly narrow things down…"

Sherlock frowns at the screen though. Impatiently moves his hand over Violet's and rewinds the footage himself, pausing it to take in Molly's expression just before she steps towards the door.

It makes something rather… mawkish twist in his chest.

"That's not just acknowledgement," he mutters to himself, looking at Hooper's face.  _Like this, she looks almost close enough to touch_. "That's relief: She's obviously talking to someone with whom she feels safe. But who would that be, I wonder?"

He taps his lip thoughtfully.

_And why would I not know them?_

Violet frowns. Nods absent-mindedly. She reaches over to the terminal beside them- which isn't being used- and logs in. Sets some program going though Sherlock can't tell what it is.

"We keep track of everyone in Hundred Acre," she says quietly at Sherlock's look. "Sorry," she amends. "I mean, we keep records of everyone who has any interaction with participants in Project Copperbeech- If Molly knows that person, they're in there."

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. "So that's my official designation?" he asks. "Copperbeech?"

Violet shrugs. "That's the project's designation. That year they were using trees for the big surveillance gigs. The year before they used flowers, the year after they used birds." She snickers. "Be thankful you weren't designated Operation Blue-tit."

Sherlock knows she's joking but he can't help the dark look he throws her.

The young woman stiffens. Winces. "Sorry," she says quietly. "I know you're worried about Roo- About Molly. I am too."

Sherlock fixes her with the iciest glare he can muster. "Don't presume to know anything about me, Agent…"

"Hunter," she supplies. "Violet Hunter."

"Agent Hunter." He jabs his finger vindictively at the screen. Ignores again that twisting in his chest. "Molly Hooper is a possible security leak to me, nothing more-"

"Then why did you request permission to see her before your exile?"

The moments the words are out of her mouth, Sherlock can tell that Hunter regrets them.

It's written all over her (now puce) face.

She opens her mouth- once, twice- but can't seem to find the words to apologise despite the thunderous look Sherlock's throwing her.

"How did you know that?" he asks tightly, unable to believe his brother would share something so, so  _private_ with a random stranger he's never even met.

_Especially since his request was refused._

Violet closes her eyes, bites at her lip in embarrassment.

"I'm Molly's data analyst," she says quietly. "You put in an official request regarding her and the system flagged it. The system flags it, I'm notified. I'm always notified. That's how I knew."

She opens her eyes and looks at him.

Sherlock's knuckles whiten as his hands fist together and there's something disgustingly… understanding in her gaze.

"She didn't know," Violet says quietly, after a moment. "I didn't inform her about your sentence- I thought about "accidentally," tipping her off but your brother would have flayed me alive."

Sherlock is still glowering at the screen, unwilling to even look at the young woman.

He's shaking with feeling and he hates it, hates how quickly emotion has enveloped him when it comes to Molly bloody Hooper.

"It was a kindness, her not knowing," he says eventually. The words are ground out through gritted teeth; he doesn't know why he's saying them. "Molly Hooper is a supremely silly, sentimental girl and knowing what lay in store for me would have done nothing-  _ **nothing**_ \- to help her. It would have only harmed her-

Is that clear, Agent Hunter?"

And he glares at her.

Hunter nods once. She looks pale with embarrassment.

"Good," Sherlock says. "Now show me the footage of her leaving St. Bart's and someone in this investigation can start doing their bloody job."

The analyst nods once, quietly. "Very good, Sir," she says, her eyes downcast.

And without another word she brings up the ambulance footage and Sherlock gets to work.

* * *

**_Meanwhile,_ **

**_Somewhere Underground_ **

It's the sound of dripping water that wakes her.

That and the cold, a damp blanket that seems to have set itself into her bones.

Molly opens her eyes to find herself alone and in near darkness.

It's cold. Quiet.

She thinks there might be some sort of light source behind her but she can't be sure.

As she comes to, she tries to straighten, to move, but finds that she cannot. Plastic ties secure her wrists, ankles, knees and shoulders to the chair on which she sits.

She is not, however, gagged.

The chair she's tied to is, in turn, nailed to a concrete floor; The walls around her are concrete, as is the ceiling above. A completely transparent Perspex wall encircles her to well above her head, a small, square hatch set into its side at ankle-height-

There's something about that hatch that tugs at her intuition, that makes her blood run cold.

She tries to focus but her head feels heavy-  _There's still some sedative in her system_ , she thinks.

There's another chair facing her- she can see it through the glass- and three large studio lights. Someone has attached a mobile phone to the back of this chair via a selfie-stick and some gaff tape; a large yellow post-it saying " _smile!"_  has been glued to one of the chair's legs. The blinking light on the mobile's upper right hand corner tells her that she's probably being filmed-

Whilst tied to a chair.

In the middle of nowhere.

On the day Moriarty has apparently returned from the dead.

 _Oh_ , she thinks.

_Oh God._

Which quickly morphs into-

 _Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, OH GOD,_ _ **OH GOD,**_   _I'm going to_ _ **die…**_

She lets out a dry, sharp sob, panic mounting within her. Her eyes well up and as soon as they do the studio lights flicker on, blinding her.

She squints at them, tries to turn her head away and as she does there's a sound like a distant boom; She hears reverb, the scratchiness of a miked voice coming through speakers, the words obviously electronically scrambled because no human voice could make those noises.

A sound like a music-box lullaby spills through her cell.

"It's raining, it's pouring," she hears. "Molly is falling…"

The hatch in the Perspex wall clicks open with a small, terrifying click, a small tube poking through it, and that's when her real troubles begin.


	4. Arcana

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Thanks for their reviews go to MizJoely, Icecat62, RubyShane, Westwinder and startsmolly. RL (and the Sherolly Big Bang Challenge) have gotten in the way of my other  stories but I thought I had best update this. Hope you enjoy another is on its way. You may just want to reread the end of the last chapter because this ties right in but other than that, enjoy!

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE: ARCANA**

* * *

_At the same time_

_In the wilds of glorious Hendon_

John Watson is not what you might call a patient man.

He might appear that way when standing next to his best friend (and occasional partner-in-crime) but frankly, standing next to Sherlock Holmes could give anyone the appearance of Gandhi-like levels of patience- Even Stalin.

But right now he's feeling very impatient indeed, waiting for Mycroft's boys to turn up in one of their obnoxiously extravagant town cars and take him and his heavily present- now heavily armed- wife to a safe house. The sort of safe house he'd been spared the last time Moriarty was on the rampage. The sort of safe-house he resolutely does not want his wife being brought to so soon after Magnusson prying into her past. He frowns at the thought, wondering whether this is what Sherlock was trying to protect him from when he took his Fall-

"Hey handsome." A strong, small hand holds itself into his and he feels Mary ghost into place beside him, her chin on his shoulder. He turns his head slightly to look at her and she gives him a tired, wan smile.

"You get everything you need, love?" he asks quietly.

"Yup," she nods, popping her Ps. "I even got a couple of things I thought Mycroft's boys had confiscated."

He frowns. "So they don't-"

"They don't." She rubs soothingly at his arm, looking every inch the sweet newly-wedded wife. "There are plenty of ways to get something past a trained operative," she murmurs, sotto voce. "Ask me no questions…"

"And you'll tell me no lies," John finishes. He presses a small, gentle kiss to her forehead.

_God, he loves this woman- especially when she's pinching his arse._

At the thought he gives her a small, tight smile. Presses another kiss to her hand before pulling away. "We're ready to go," he calls out to the Agent in charge, a huge, burly mountain of a man called Hobson.

He gets no answer.

"Hey," he says, pulling away from Mary and rounding the corner into the kitchen, which is where most of the agents were clustered. "Hey, we're ready to go if you-"

The agents don't look up however.

They're all clustered around Hobson's phone and they're staring at it in horror.

"What's wrong?" Mary says crisply, pushing her way into the kitchen. "What's happened to set you all-" She gestures with her hands. Gives a vague impression of aggression and confusion.

Only at this does Hobson look up, though he doesn't turn his attention to her, he turns his attention to his second in command. This woman nods curtly- "Boss said they were to be kept in the loop, Sir,"- and with a brusque grunt he indicates that John and Mary should join him at their table.

He places his phone on its counter and gestures to them to look.

John frowns, a sense of dread growing in his belly as he stares down at the screen. For a moment he doesn't know what he's seeing; the screen is frozen, blurred and buffering- Apparently Hobson's internet access is shite-

But then-

An image appears, the screen clearing. It's a dark-haired women. Petite. Shivering. She's right in front of the camera, head bent, hair obscuring her face. A painfully bright light is being shone on her and she appears to be crying.

Her shoulders shake with her misery, breath coming in great, choking gulps.

Something sounds in the background, rushing water John thinks, and as it grows louder the woman starts to panic, starts shaking herself and trying to break free. It's only then that John realises she's tied to a chair, and that chair is in the middle of what looks like… It looks like a glass tube, water beginning to slosh up its sides. Fill it. She's sitting in the middle of a death-trap, he realises. She's going to drown. As he thinks this the woman looks up, gaze going right to the camera and at that moment John realises-

 _Oh God,_ he thinks.  _Oh God, it's Molly._

_The woman in the glass tube is Molly Hooper._

He hears Mary swear and hiss as she recognises her friends, fury going through her and immediately he grabs her, pulls her into a hug.  _He can't risk any of this lot guessing how dangerous she is when she's angry._ She comes willingly enough but he can feel it, feel the rage pouring off her that someone she knows and cares about has had this done to her-

"How?" he demands of Hobson but it's his second in command who answers him.

"The link came in on all our phones," she says quietly. "Text message. Both of the Holmes have seen it; in fact most of GCHQ has."

"And do we know where it's coming from?" John asks tightly. "Is it a live feed, do we know? Or is it… Is this a recording?"

_Could she already be dead? Is this the last image I'll see of her?_

This thought makes his chest catch, helplessness making him want to punch something.

Hobson finally looks up. "IT boys are on it," he says dispassionately. He picks up his phone, checks it before nodding to himself and tucking it into his inside pocket. He's all business, suddenly, determined to see his task to its end. "Boss says we're to bring them to The Mews," he informs his second. "I'll take the first car, you take the second.

"Stay sharp, yeah?"

And he gestures her dismissal; The woman nods again, stalking silently out of the room. Three agents follow at her heels. Hobson flicks his head to one of his other boys and the agent takes Mary and John's bags, drags them out to the car as the Watsons trail behind him.

The silence is total- smothering- as they get into the back seat.

"We'll get this bastard," Mary murmurs to him quietly. "He's not hurting my family- Not if I can help it."

 _Tell that to Molly Hooper_ , John wants to say but he merely takes her hand and squeezes it as they pull into the traffic and away.

* * *

_Meanwhile, at GCHQ Tracking Station 13a (The Mews)_

_123 Carendon Rd._

"What do we have on the signal?"

And Sherlock leans angrily over Agent Hunter's shoulder, gestures to the diagnostic running in a separate window on her computer screen from the video feed of Molly. The video feed of Molly being slowly, surely drowned as she's tied to a chair.

_The graphs and numbers mean nothing to him and he bloody well hates that._

Behind him he can hear Mycroft murmuring quietly into his phone, reassuring his masters no doubt now that Moriarty has shown he has the mobile phone numbers of every agent in MI5, MI6 and everywhere in between.

His brother is pacing.

Mycroft pacing in never a good sign.

"Mr. Holmes," Agent Hunter's voice cuts into his thoughts. "Mr. Holmes, I know that you're worried about Roo but I need you to get out of my way and let me do my job, ok?"

And before he can bite out a retort she calls to the heavy-set Goth girl he'd been introduced to earlier, summons her with a flick of her head. "Squeak," she calls. "You know this stuff better than I do-

"What can you tell me about where the signal's coming from?"

The woman- Squeak- nods and walks over. Hunter stands and gives up her chair, allowing her companion to look at her screen. She starts clicking through box after box of data, frowning as she does so and exchanging frankly indecipherable sentences with her-

"Where is she?" Sherlock demands, his hands fisting at his sides.

He knew he should have just gone straight to Bart's.  _If he had-_

"We're trying to work that out, Sir," Squeak says, speaking over his thoughts. When she speaks, it's with a Scots accent. "From what we can tell the feed is live. That narrows things down a little bit; It means she's probably not underground and she's probably not in the middle of nowhere-"

"So she must be somewhere where there's a strong enough signal to broadcast?" he asks.

Hunter nods. "Yeah. We're trying to trace the signal but it's bouncing all over the globe- And there's no telling when it might cut out." She frowns, calls to the thin blond man to her right. "Dan," she says. "What do we have on the hosting site? I assume he's not hosting this on you-tube-"

"Already on it, Vi," the young man says. "It's a new site, set up specifically for this by the looks of it. It's the only thing on it."

"Anything on who's behind it?" Sherlock asks.

If he gets a name, if he can find an actual person with an actual face he can pummel-

Dan shakes his head though. "Looks like an alias, Sir," he says. "Listed to a businessman in Estonia but I'm having trouble finding anything that doesn't look fake-"

"So it was created with a fake identity?" Sherlock asks.

Dan snorts. "Yep. Welcome to the internet."

Sherlock opens his mouth, about to snap out a sharp retort but before he can Squeak reaches out and unceremoniously smacks Dan on the back of the head. "Have some bloody respect," she snaps. "This is Roo we're talking about, yeah?"

Dan looks chastened but opens his mouth to retort. Before he can however the team leader, Adi, speaks over him. "Guys," he says. He even gestures to get Mycroft's attention. "Guys, I think you should see this…"

And Adi hands Hunter his phone, gesture to everyone to look at it. It's a twitter stream, most of the tweets concerning the return of the new season of  _Doctor Who_ , from what Sherlock can see. There's a selection of hash tags including #policebox, #BiggerOnTheInside and #RiversBack, and for a moment he can't imagine what on Earth the other man wants them looking at-

But then he sees it.

Oh God, does he see it.

Because right under a message proclaiming #13thBack someone has put in an internet address.

It's the same internet address that he and everyone else in GCHQ is currently looking at, the same internet address currently hosting Molly's footage.

 _Hey guys,_ the tweet says.  _Check this out. Moriarty's first victim?_ And then #MoriartyLives, #WhatArentTheyTellingUs.

It's like watching a bomb go off in slow motion, Sherlock thinks, watching the web address spread.

And spread it has. The tweet has already been liked and re-liked, more than a thousand times. It's been shared thousands of times too and it's only been up for minutes. This is, to use the technical term, a complete and utter clusterfuck, and one look at Mycroft tells him his brother agrees. People are tuning in, tweeting each other. A ping goes off on Violet's phone and Hunter informs them that the website has made the jump to Facebook.

"Oh," Squeak opines darkly. "Oh joy." She and Hunter share sour looks. "Well there goes any chance of flying this under the radar…"

"Yes, Sherlock snaps. "Because that's absolutely the important thing in all this." The frustration rises in him, tying him in knots. The need to do something- anything- to help his friend tightening his stomach, setting his mind snarling. They're doing nothing and Molly is being hurt and now people are watching it for, for pleasure. For morbid fascination. For fun.

It is a thing not. To. Be. Borne.

_He_ _**is** _ _going to stop it._

So he opens his mouth, about to yell or demand a car or demand a plan, or, or something and then suddenly the image of Molly goes dark.

The screen blanks.

"What happened?" he barks and as he watches Squeak starts closing windows, opening others. After a moment she exhales.

"The feed's cut," she says quietly.

"Someone blocked it?" Sherlock demands.

"No," Squeak answers, "it's stopped broadcasting." She shakes his head, taps another few keys before leaning back in her chair and frowning darkly.

"Did the server get overloaded?" Hunter asks but she shakes her head again.

"I don't think so," she says. "At least, there's no way I can be sure from here…"

And then suddenly her phone pings. Then Hunter's. Then Mycroft's. Then everyone else's in the room.

That Sherlock's phone goes off last cannot, he feels, be a good sign.

Slowly, cautiously, he takes out it out of his pocket. Taps the screen on.

He apparently has a new message from a withheld number.

 _That was my opening number,_ the text says.  _Can't wait to show you the first act. But let's try for a little audience participation first, eh? Let's see how many people we can get watching sweet, soon-to-be-dead-little Molly breathe her last…_

_I'll be in touch. You'll know why soon enough xx_

Sherlock closes his eyes and it's only with great difficulty that he doesn't smash the phone. He certainly bloody wants to. But finding another one and keeping his files would be tedious, he reminds himself. It would cause him problems, and he has a massive problem already: Someone is hurting a person he lo- A person he cares about and that's not a thing he's going to allow to happen. Not now, not ever. So-

"The text indicates that Molly's still alive," he announces. "Or at least that the person who took her wants us to believe she is."

"And if she's not?" Mycroft looks at him, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed.

He's glowering at his little brother as if he can read his thoughts, right through his cranium. It reminds Sherlock of many, many summers spent in his brother's company and the familiarity of the annoyance he feels at this calms him. Grounds him.

Mycroft, he knows how to deal with.

"We can't know, one way or the other," he announces. "And since we can't know, I elect to proceed as if Molly is alive."

"Why? Mycroft demands. "Why would you-"

"Because there's no peace to be had in thinking she's not!" Sherlock snaps. He says it so loudly even calm, grounded Squeak jumps in her chair; The other members of the team shuffle and look at their feet.

He leans on the desk before him, glares at his brother.

"Whoever took her, took her for a reason," he bites out tightly. "They want to torture me. They want to show they have one up on us. They might want to be on the next season of  _Britain's Got Talent_  for all I know, but right now Molly serves their purpose better alive than dead and that's what I'm choosing to work with- Is that clear?"

He's not speaking to them but The Team at large nod.

"Now get me a bloody location where I can start looking and earn your wage in this endeavour, or I shall simply leave and track her down on my own."

And he leans back, gestures imperiously to Squeak. She mutters to herself, pulls up some maps. She and Hunter converse for a moment and then she sighs. Points to a map of London.

"Given when Roo was taken, and the strength of the signal," she says, "I'd start searching here."

It's a map of Hampstead and the areas beyond.

"That's utter tosh," Mycroft says sharply. "She could be bloody anywhere-"

"Could be," Sherlock interrupts, "but won't be. If this is Moriarty then he'll want her near. He wants me to come looking for her, and the speed with which he's killing her indicates that he assumes I can find her in time- If I'm clever enough."

He shakes his head, gives a smile that's nearly a snarl.

The smile Squeak and Hunter shoot him match it.

"The game's no fun if I couldn't have ever found her so I think your team is right, Mikey, I think she'll be there." He looks at Squeak and Hunter, nods to them. "Thank you."

The larger woman shrugs with feigned indifference though her cheeks redden. "Don't thank me yet- Go and get her first," she says.

Hunter nods, pushes away from her desk.

"Permission to join Mr. Holmes in the field as team liaison," she says to Adi but though it's her boss she addresses it's Mycroft who answers her.

"Fine," he says tersely. "You'll probably get him into less trouble than most of his usual cohorts, anyway."

He reaches into his jacket pocket, takes out a small, cheap-looking phone and tosses it to her.

"Keep me in the loop," he says. "Use that phone and that phone only- Are we clear?"

With a tight smile Hunter nods, taking the phone before darting to the back of the office. She returns moments later with her coat over her arm and a gun holster at her shoulder.  _Turns out she's a baretta sort of a girl._

"What?" she says at the others' looks. "I was prepared, is all." She clears her throat. "I used to be a girl scout."

Hunter's preparedness or lack thereof is of no interest to Sherlock however. He nods, moving towards the door. He's already pulled out his own phone and brought up John's number; he hits dial as he walks.

"Laters," he mutters, holding open the door for Hunter since trying to lose her this early in proceedings would be tedious. "Try to keep up," he mutters to her and the young agent nods and quickens her pace, her short legs having trouble keeping up with his long ones.

Neither of them speak when a car pulls up out front minutes later, a car containing John and Mary Watson.

The couple take one look at Sherlock and move over.

"Get in," John says and away they go.


	5. The Man With The Key

_Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. I kept meaning to come back to this, and the closeness of S4 has finally lit a fire under my arse about it so here we are; apologies for the delay. As always, thanks for their reviews go to NYDamascus79, Soberdog, Drk and MetricJenn. There should be more frequent updates from now on: Enjoy!_

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR: THE MAN WITH THE KEY**

* * *

 

"Where to, Agent Hunter?"

And the large mountain of a man driving their vehicle turns to look at the woman beside Sherlock, eyebrows raised.

She gives him a tight smile and, to Mary's surprise, gestures to the detective.

"You follow Mr. Holmes lead for the time being, Briggs," she says. "Orders from the _other_ Mr. Holmes," she adds, when the driver looks like he's about to argue.

If Sherlock notices this he gives no indication, his shoulders hunched, his eyes on his phone. He's scrolling through maps of London, making use of the backdoor into Mycroft's files which Mary introduced him to during his search for Emilia Ricoletti. He's muttering under his breath too, swearing mostly though occasionally Mary catches a hint of Molly's name-

"So you've a lead?" John asks from beside her, the question directed, seemingly, to the car at large.

His voice is tight with worry, his posture tense.

Mary puts her hand on his knee and gives a sympathetic squeeze.

Sherlock doesn't look up but Agent Hunter does, throwing John a small smile. "We think she's being held somewhere in Hampstead," she says. "Given the strength of the signal we have, the amount of time she's been taken and the fact that Mr. Holmes believes Moriarty wants to keep her somewhere he can find-"

John nods, his brows furrowing together. "Makes sense, I suppose," he says. His gaze flicks to Mary and something moves through it, some memory perhaps. It doesn't look pleasant.

"He's playing a game," he tells her softly when she raises her eyebrows in question. "Moriarty always played games. If he took Molly then it's because he wants Sherlock to come looking for her-"

"But he doesn't want me to find her, John," Sherlock announces, looking up suddenly. "He wants me to be just that tiny bit too late, to watch her suffer and die- Not that I'm going to oblige, of course."

And he sits up straighter, eyes sharp and bright. Glinting. Mary grins at him because she immediately recognises his reaction:"You've found her," she says and he inclines his head curtly, as if to say _of course._

"If he wants me to find her then it stands to reason he's put her somewhere that I would be able to access information about," he points out. "Et voila!"

And he picks up his phone, taps the screen to enlarge the image on it. It shows a green and brown terrain map, with a small white triangle picked harshly out in white. "There's a subterranean World War 2 bunker located at the edge of Hampstead Heath," he says, pointing at the phone screen. "It was supposed to act as a secondary shelter for the royal family during the Blitz; afterwards it was used by GCHQ as a spying post."

Agent Hunter frowns. "The Icehouse?" she asks. "Nobody's been able to get into that deathtrap for years- The bosses had it cemented over in the late 90s."

Sherlock shrugs. "Are you certain about that?" he asks archly. "What with your bosses being so very trustworthy, and all…"

Hunter shoots him a look. So does John.

Mary, on the other hand, can't help her smile.

"There were problems," Hunter's saying. Her tone is defensive. "The Icehouse was considered a back door, not set into the main system. Used for wet work, off the books sort of stuff. A couple of times operations went tits up, everyone ended up with egg on their faces-"

"And a corpse in their backyard," Sherlock finishes for her. "I am familiar with its history."

His tone is so condescending Mary swears Hunter's hand twitches towards her gun.

"But, this "Icehouse,"" he continues with nary a pause, "is the only building inside the search parameters which matches the online footage of Molly's location.. It's the only place where a signal that strong could be coming from- It's still tied into the BBC's emergency broadcast system from before the war, so hooking into an overseas server in Estonia wouldn't be hard. And-"

He smiles sharply. Gives a flourish

From the corner of her eye Mary sees John roll his eyes and despite herself she smiles at him.

"It's also on Mycroft's radar," Sherlock announces. "In his backyard, in point of fact. Moriarty might as well have hung up Christmas lights and decorated a tree, it's so bloody obvious-"

"Which means it's a trap," John cuts in. "You have to know that, Sherlock."

The detective throws his friend a sharp, feral smile which John promptly matches. Mary feels a surge of pride in the man she married at the sight.

"Oh, I'm counting on it," Sherlock is saying. "Jim from IT's not getting away from me, not if I can help it." And he hands his phone to the driver. "We need to get to these coordinates Briggs," he tells he tells the man with grating, obnoxious cheerfulness.

There's a light in him now, Mary muses. A fire.

 _The Game,_ she thinks, _is on._

So she takes her husband's hand. Squeezes it once more before gesturing to her shoulder, to the weapon she's concealing under her coat. He nods tightly to show he's gotten the message.

There's a matching bulge underneath his own jacket, she knows.

Sherlock has turned back to Hunter, giving her a searching look which she meets head-on. "I suppose you've informed my brother," he drawls and she nods. Grins.

"Text went about few seconds ago," she says. "If there is any clearance needed to get in, he'll send it along." For the first time since she got into the car, the young woman seems confident. Like a woman who knows what she has to do.

"Don't worry, Roo," Mary hears her mutter under her breath. "The cavalry's coming for you…"

The young agent takes out her phone, doubtless checking for Mycroft's reply. She hums to herself, opening up the screen and clicking on her newest text message-

Which is when the sound of Molly Hooper's online screams begin to filter into the car.

* * *

 

_**Meanwhile,** _

_**Somewhere underground** _

Molly can't feel her feet anymore.

She also can't feel her legs.

In fact, there are few places she _can_ feel, the cold of the water in which she's partially submerged being what it is. She can't even movel her hands- they're tied, after all, to her chair- and her breath is frosting in front of her face.

Her teeth her chattering really, really loudly.

In front of her the bank of three lights have suddenly lit up, their brightness shocking. Blinding. She can just about make out the light on the mobile phone, filming her when that voice, that hateful, singsong voice, starts crooning again-

" _It's raining, it's pouring… Molly is falling… "_

She raises her head. Looks around. She can't find a source for the voice. She can't see anyone.

"Who are you?" she calls. "Why are you doing this?" But nobody answers her.

She lets out a scream of pure frustration and it echoes through the room.

As she does the small hatch in her perspex cage opens again, however. Begins piping in water once more. It's freezing- even worse than the original amount- and, like the original amount it doesn't seem to be warming up any, despite its contact with her body heat.

It rises over her knees to cover her belly and it's at this point that Molly begins to panic in earnest.

With a strangled gasp she starts to rock in her chair, pulling at the bonds with all her weight.

It's useless, however; whoever tied her made sure that there's no single point at which she can lever her strength to pull free. The force of her struggles does nothing except tear open the flesh of her wrists. Her hands. Her ankles. Pain cuts through her in those few areas which aren't numb with the cold. The knowledge of it makes her panic worse, which in turn makes her attempts to get free more frenzied. Less controlled. _Less likely to free her._ She's aware, dimly, that she's making noise, that she might even be screaming, but she can't let herself think about it, she can't let herself process it…

And then suddenly the water stops coming in.

The lights come down slightly and there's silence. Total, utter silence. Molly squints into the darkness and she can just make out the silhouette of a short, dapperly-dressed man standing on the other side of the glass.

He's carrying an apple in his hand, the letters _IOU_ just barely visible, carved into the fruit's red flesh.

For a moment he stands still. Seems to stare at her. Molly raises her head and glares at him.

"What do you bloody well want with me?" she demands, her voice hoarse. "WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU WANT WITH ME?"

He doesn't answer; Rather he clicks his fingers. Turns his back on her. Immediately the lights go up to full power, blinding her. They're so harsh they bring tears to her eyes. Molly has to turn away, eyelids squeezed tightly shut. She hears the sound of footsteps walking around her, behind her and then suddenly-

Suddenly a hand reaches into the tank and yanks her head back by her ponytail with unexpected, violent force.

Her mouth jerks open and she feels something forced between her lips, so hard it hurts her teeth. Makes her gag.

She bites down and she realises it's an apple.

It flashes through her head, _IOU, IOU, IOU..._

And then the hand at her hair releases her and forces her head forward, smacking her forehead into the perspex surface in front of her. There's a loud bang somewhere to her right, the sound of sirens and then suddenly every light in the room goes out.

Molly sits in the darkness, listening to her breathing, listening as the water starts trickling into her prison again-

She's still trying to figure out what's going on- and what she's going to do- when the water reaches her throat.


	6. Catch and Release

_ Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to stbartsmolly, an_elegant_chaos, Soberdog, MetricJenn, MizJoely, Icecat62 and deby. This one is rather intense, buckle up...  _

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE: CATCH AND RELEASE**

* * *

 

_ Apparently,  _ Sherlock muses darkly _ , the sound of a woman’s screams can act as quite the call to action, if one’s an agent of the crown _ . 

_ Of course,  _ he thinks,  _  if one knows the woman in question- if this woman is, in fact, in danger because of you- then those screams will act rather more as torture than spur.  _

It’s for this reason that Sherlock feels both relieved and horrified when Molly’s recorded screams fill the car, because Agent Briggs finally puts his foot to the bloody floor and takes off like a bat out of Hell, any thought of propriety or legality forgotten in the desire to get to the Icehouse. They slip and slide all over the road, Molly’s screams the soundtrack to each increasingly reckless manoeuvre, and it’s all Sherlock, John and Mary can do to hold on for dear life-  

The detective wouldn’t have it any other way.  

Far faster than he might have believed, they skid to a halt beside a squat, graffiti-covered block of concrete at the edge of Hampstead Heath. Agent Hunter is out of the car first, darting over to the door’s side and hunkering down; By the time Sherlock and the Watsons have gotten to her she’s drawn her firearm, setting it to the heavy metal lock on the Icehouse door and letting off a couple of rounds. Mary grabs her husband and Sherlock and hauls them to the side, keeping them away from possible ricocheting bullets; When they hear Hunter call they move forward, John, Briggs and Sherlock helping her push open the rusting, steel-plated door. It shifts with a loud, awful clang- 

_ So much,  _ Sherlock muses, _ for stealth.  _

He doesn’t dwell on that thought now though. Outside the round circle of daylight from the open door the Icehouse is pitch-black: There’s no cigarette butts, no tell-tale larger cans or bottles left over from malingering teenage drinking or drug-taking. There’s not even any sign of how Molly’s kidnappers got in. Once the door is open Briggs pulls out a penlight from his jacket pocket; Hunter cuts the audio of Molly on her phone, though she whispers a quick affirmative that the website’s still streaming. _ Apparently they’ve made it onto Instagram now. _ They don’t need the internet now though, they can hear the real thing: Molly’s somewhere beneath them, down two?- three? Floors and to the right. 

_ Judging by the tenor of her voice she’s completely panicked. _

For a split second Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. Forces himself to breathe. To calm.  _ He’s no use to Molly if he’s not sharp _ . He feels John’s hand at his arm, giving a squeeze, and when he opens his eyes Briggs has moved to take point. Hunter has pulled out her sidearm and started stalking behind him. John and Mary fan out around Sherlock, weapons drawn, and the small group starts moving quietly into the darkness, eyes peeled. Ears straining. 

They encounter nothing but icy cold and the dank, oppressive stink of forgotten places. 

Molly’s screams continue though, acting as their guide. They expect resistance, but they don’t encounter any; this alone makes Sherlock suspicious. _ They all know this is a trap, so hasn’t it been sprung?  _ He doesn’t have time to to ponder it though, he just keeps moving deeper into the Icehouse. His eyes gradually adjusting to the lack of light; Every so often something attracts Briggs’ or Hunter’s attention and they split off slightly to investigate, John, Sherlock and Mary move in together to guard one another’s backs. But each time they come back empty-handed, Hunter exchanging chagrined expressions with her fellow agent before taking up position again. Starting to move again- _ The tension is almost unbearable-  _

They’ve managed to make their way down to the second basement floor when Molly’s screams cut off, her voice dying. 

There’s silence and then the sound of coughing. Gurgling. Beneath that, mocking, masculine laughter can be heard, its timbre chillingly- impossibly- familiar. 

“Moriarty,” Sherlock hears John murmur.  

“That bloody bastard,” Mary adds, and then- 

The laughter gets louder, Molly’s voice disappearing altogether. “Bye-bye!” he hears the man’s voice snicker and Sherlock knows it’s reckless- he knows he shouldn’t- but he still finds himself taking off at a rapid clip, thundering heedlessly towards the room before him from which Molly’s voice had last been heard. He tries to plunge headlong in but John grabs the back of his jacket at the last minute, yanks him to a standstill before physically forcing him behind him. Mary darts forward instead, her weapon drawn, and moves into a patch of darkness to her right. Tosses something- a stone or pipe, perhaps?- into the room before signalling with a curt jerk of her head that her husband and Sherlock are safe to enter, that nobody is inside. 

As they do they hear the sound of a metallic door closing to their left. 

They’re also forced to blink dazedly as the room is suddenly enveloped in harsh, blindingly white light. 

Briggs and Hunter have followed behind them; the two agents exchange glances and then make for the door they just heard close. Sherlock, Mary and John stagger to a halt, blinking in discomfort and blindsided; They hear the sound of lapping water. See two spotlights trained on a perspex tube which is filled with liquid-

Filled with liquid and a terrified, entirely submerged, _currently drowning_ Molly Hooper. 

“Molly,” Sherlock murmurs, and suddenly it’s like all the air in has been sucked out of the room. 

Her eyes go to Sherlock’s, wide and brown and pleading- She reaches out to him, her palm flat against the glass in which she’s trapped. Her feet kick haphazardly, desperately railing against her lack of oxygen. Against her imminent death. There’s bruises on her throat, her face and at the sight Holmes feels a surge of rage go through him. A frenzy of animal, carnal fury at the thought of what has been done to her because of him and his- 

He reaches for the nearest heavy object he can find- a pipe- and he swings it towards the perspex coffin with a roar. He’s dimly aware of Mary and John hauling the lit strobe lights out of the way; Once they’re far enough from the water not to risk electrocution the Watsons aim their weapons at the bottom of the tank, firing two short sounds into the glass and causing it to shatter more thoroughly than Sherlock’s meagre efforts would. Water falls forward in a cascade, Molly tumbling out and onto the floor, her breathing wracked and loud as she tries to draw breath into her lungs- 

Sherlock’s at her side in a moment, holding her up, clearing the hair from her face. 

She’s coughing and sputtering, trembling all over, but at least she’s bloody alive-  _ Thank Christ she’s alive-   _

He stares at her and in that moment he feels perhaps the greatest wash of gratitude he’s ever experienced in his entire life. 

John’s beside him in a heartbeat, his training taking over. He shrugs his way out of his coat, orders Sherlock to set her down. Holmes doesn’t want to but instinct-  _ no, trust in his best friend _ \- wins out and he does as he’s told. He sets Molly gently down on her back- He can’t bring himself to let go of her entirely and so he keeps hold of her hand. She’s crying, babbling and trying to breathe but John’s patient with her. He keeps his voice calm and comforting- He’s dealt with trauma before, after all. Mary’s shrugged off her coat and now she places it around the young pathologist’s shoulders, smiling at her. She’s murmuring to her softly too, asking her if there’s anything they need to know-  _ Was she given anything?- Did they hurt her anywhere that’s not obvious? _

For all her fear Molly manages to give fairly coherent answers. 

She shakes her head, murmurs that no, she doesn’t think she was dosed with anything- 

The words are barely out of her mouth when all the lights suddenly go out. 

It’s also when the sounds of a firefight start ghosting into the room from somewhere to their right. 

As disorientating as the brightness was, the utter darkness is worse. And judging by the sounds of the shooting, whoever’s putting up that resistance is above them-  _ If they have infrared then Sherlock and his group could be sitting ducks.  _  With a string of curses John picks up Molly and hauls her towards the only cover in the room, an old workbench, Mary grabbing Sherlock and tugging him along behind them. The Watsons set Molly between them, their weapons drawn once again- They huddle in the dark, Sherlock murmuring to Molly that it’ll be alright, Hooper’s hand tightening almost painfully in his as she seeks reassurance- 

There are flashes of brightness above them- gunshots and then suddenly they hear a man’s voice yelling. 

Something heavy smashes into the ground in front of them and from far away they hear a strangled, female scream. 

Once again the lights flicker on to show them the sight of Agent Briggs’ mangled, decimated corpse: It’s been thrown from a great height- the top of the stairs they just walked down, by the looks of things- and it has a note pinned to its chest. 

_ Thanks for playing, Sherlock,  _ it says,  _ but it looks like I’m the one who got the prize-  _

Sherlock feels his phone vibrate and when he opens it he has a text message: it’s an image of Agent Hunter’s bruised, bleeding face attached to the words,  _ mine now. Tell the Iceman, Virgin.  _

And that’s when Mycroft’s cavalry finally arrive. 


	7. Big House, Little House, Pigsty, Barn

_ Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks to everyone for their reviews, hope you enjoy...  _

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX: BIG HOUSE, LITTLE HOUSE, PIGSTY, BARN**

* * *

 

As soon as Mycroft enters and sees Briggs he pulls out his phone. Whoever he calls is on speed-dial; when they pick up starts muttering to someone- Sherlock belatedly realises it’s Adi- about enacting something called a, “patronus protocol.” 

At these words the heavy-set Goth girl Sherlock had met earlier- _ Squeak, Agent Hunter had called her _ \- flicks her head up and pulls out her own phone. She darts off into a corner, her free hand curling into a fist in nervousness as she mutters, “pick up, pick up, pick up Ruta.” 

Whoever she’s called mustn’t answer for she snaps she call short with a muttered expletive and makes her way over to Mycroft, trying to catch his eye. (He’s still talking shop with Adi). 

“Sir,” she interrupts when her third attempt fails. “Sir, I’ve called Vi’s house and nobody’s home-”

Mycroft’s look of irritation at being interrupted melts as he presumably takes in the import of what she’s telling him. 

With a jerk of his chin he nods to a couple of agents Sherlock doesn’t know and Dan, the only other member of Sherlock’s security team who’s with him. 

“Check it,” Mycroft says tersely. “If the child and her minder are there then bring them  in. If not, straight back to the Mews, no detours, is that clear?”

Both Squeak and Dan nod, setting off at a fierce clip and leaving their commander to stare at Sherlock and his friends dismally. His eyes flicker to Molly, and thence to the hand that Sherlock’s still holding. Its wrist- both Molly’s wrists- are bruised and cut where the plastic ties which had held her down before releasing as the tank filled have gouged into her skin. The elder Holmes says nothing however, merely sighs. Reaches into his inside pocket to pull out a cigarette before offering one to Sherlock. 

Though he’d rather like the nicotine hit, when he makes to move away Molly winces. 

Immediately he stills uncertainly, then moves closer to her, rubbing one hand ineffectually against her still-wet arm and trying to warm her. 

He smiles as he does it, trying to project an air of calm which he most decidedly does not feel. 

Molly nods to him though, almost as if he’d spoken, and then moves closer to him, laying her head on his shoulder. Her eyes stay on him the entire time, as if asking his permission. When he doesn’t push her away or stiffen she curls her body so that Mycroft and the other agents can’t see her face, her shoulders hunching as if she’s trying to make herself seem smaller. The message is clear: she wishes to be left alone except, perhaps, for Sherlock. 

_ The realisation makes a rather alarming… something flutter in the detective’s’ chest.  _

Mycroft rolls his eyes but says nothing, merely moves to the centre of the room and lights up, the rest of his agents swarming through the building with practiced, easy efficiency. His shoe taps off something- the apple which had been forced into Molly’s mouth during her ordeal- and he picks it up with his free hand. Idly examines the IOUs repeatedly carved into its flesh. When he speaks he pitches his voice so that everyone- including Sherlock and the Watsons- can hear. 

His tone is almost… admiring. 

“The production values really were splendid, weren’t they?” he drawls conversationally. “Why, I doubt the BBC could have engineered a better set-piece than this if they had all year. Damsel in distress, a race against the clock. A handsome, flawed hero, rushing to save an innocent-.”

To his right Sherlock sees John grit his teeth- “This is not a bloody game, Mycroft, Molly was nearly killed!”- but Mary’s expression is calculating. Calm. 

She walks over to him, takes the apple from his hand. 

At seeing it Sherlock turns his attention back to Molly, pulling her closer and trying to dry her more thoroughly. Trying to distract her though listening in himself. (He doubts she needs to hear what’s about to be said). 

“So you agree, Mary,” Mycroft drawls when she doesn’t speak. “This was theatre?”

She shakes her head. “Spectacle,” she corrects. “Right down to the tank and the broadcasting it on social media- Your little cyber-elves will be kept busy trying to clean that mess up, and right when they should be looking for your imposter.” Her smile turns sharp. Feral, almost. 

“Handy bit of timing, that.”

Mycroft inclines his head courteously, allowing her point. “And now our opponent has a member of Sherlock’s surveillance team,” he continues. “Someone who knows our systems inside and out. Someone who knows my brother’s life, inside and out. Of course we’ll lock down her security clearance, change every password we can, but still… It’s the system Hunter knows. The system she helped build. Her loss will cost us.”

He inclines his head to Mary. Takes back the apple before handing it to an agent to bag as evidence. “As I said, Mrs. Watson: Theatre. Rather fine theatre.”

Mary’s only response is to roll her eyes. 

John, as usual, joins her. 

“So you think that she was the target, not me?” Molly’s voice is rough, low. Her throat’s been through rather a lot today, after all. Though the words are spoken into Sherlock’s shoulder, they still travel.  “You think they put  me through all that for- for-” 

“For a distraction? Yes,” Mycroft says. His tone is not sympathetic. “My apologies, but you rather seem to have been a pawn, Miss Hooper-”

“It’s  _ Dr. _ Hooper, Mr. Holmes.” And she drops her head, unable to continue though she doesn’t need to. Of course she was a decoy, now that they’re looking at it, Sherlock muses. And of course Mycroft must have realised that rather early on. He wants to glare at his brother but he finds he can’t, just as he finds himself completely confused as to how to help Molly right now. Even his drying efforts are proving ineffectual, and is she’s being all emotional and feminine then experience indicates he’s out of his depth-  

But still, he can’t bring himself to pull away, and he suspects, given how tightly she’s holding onto his hand, that she doesn’t want him to. 

Rather, he meets her eyes, opens his mouth, about to ask something- anything- that will help her but before he can John leans over to them. Quietly asks Molly whether she’d like to go now, to which she nods in relief. Responds with a near-silent, “Yes, please.”  

Mycroft cocks an irritated eyebrow- “She’s not been cleared,”- but John speaks over him. 

“I’m her doctor, she’s been cleared by me,” he says firmly. “We’re taking her back to Baker Street where I can treat her, and you and your boys can go play James Bond to your heart’s content: Molly’s out.”

With those words he starts packing up his things, starting with his sidearm. He gives a single look to Mary and she nods, fetching her own gear before tapping Sherlock lightly on the shoulder.  _ There is, after all, never any doubt about where her allegiance lies _ .  “Are you coming?” she asks. 

“But of course.” Sherlock tries to help Molly stand but after a couple of ineffectual attempts on her part he picks her up, hefting her in his arms and ignoring Mycroft’s disdainful look. He also ignores John’s whispered, “You know there’s no lift, right?” before starting to carry her up the stairs. While he knows the exertion should bother him, it doesn’t: It’s not that Molly’s terribly light- she’s too much muscle from moving dead bodies for that- it’s the fact that letting her go seems a worse idea than getting out of breath. 

He also can’t help but be pleased at the thought of actually doing something for her, rather than just sitting there, being useless. 

Once they reach the top of the stairs they find a vehicle waiting for them, one of Mycroft’s less ostentatious ones. After a moment’s confusion, they settle Molly into the back between Sherlock and John. Mary takes the passenger seat, her gun laid rather obviously in her lap. They pull into traffic, Mary and John going out of there way to make soothing, nonsense small-talk- 

Molly’s hand stays in Sherlock’s the whole journey and though he knows he shouldn’t, he finds he likes it there. 

He carries her up the stairs to Baker Street as he carried her out of the Icehouse, kicking open the door to his flat-

Which is when the second big surprise of the day elects to make itself known.

* * *

 

**_Meanwhile_ **

**_In The Icehouse_ **

“So we’ve no read on the child?” Anthea asks him quietly. 

She’s standing at his elbow, just returned from her errand with his brother, and when she speaks her voice is pitched not to travel at all. 

It wouldn’t, after all, do to spook the other members of the team, those who haven’t yet heard that Agent Violet Hunter’s little girl is now missing- Missing from the flat where her au pair was also found, rather brutally murdered. 

“Abigail Hunter is gone,” Mycroft answers, just as softly. “Preliminary examination of the flat reveals a great deal of the au pair’s blood, but none of the girl’s- But then you already guessed that.”

Anthea nods. “The child’s more use to them alive than dead,” she says tightly. “Her mother might hold out for the sake of your brother or her team, but with her own flesh and blood on the line…”

“She’ll sing like a nightingale,” Mycroft finishes for her. He sighs- an indulgence he rarely allows himself- and shakes his head. 

Anthea reaches inside her coat, pulls out a small metal flask. “For the day that’s in it,” she says softly and for once Mycroft favours her with a smile. Nods and takes a slightly longer sip than he meant to before handing it back. 

“Glenfiddich?” he asks and she smiles. Nods. Takes a sip of her own. 

“Only the best for you, Sir,” she says and despite himself, despite all that has happened in this long, long day, Mycroft finds another, wider smile coming to his lips. Finds himself relaxing slightly, in that way he only ever does with Anthea- 

This moment of peace doesn’t last, however, for in the next moment his phone chimes. It’s a text message from Sherlock. 

_ Come to Baker Street at once,  _ it reads.  _ You and you alone- not even Anthea.  _

This is followed by what looks like a youtube web address; It appears to be footage of a small, curly-haired boy playing violin before a group of enthusiastic tourists. 

With another sigh and a small shake of his head, Mycroft leaves his protege and sets out for his brother’s home- He’ll wait until he’s in the car to watch the youtube video in its entirety- 

He feels Anthea’s eyes on him as he goes, but as always he says nothing about it- And neither does she. 


	8. Kith, Kin, Kind

_ Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely miabicicletta- Many thanks. Thanks for their reviews also go to MizJoely, (happy birthday, btw), renniejoy, Raelynn and deby. Hope you enjoy! _

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVEN: KITH, KIN, KIND**

* * *

 

**_221b Baker Street_ **

**_40 Minutes Later_ **

When Mycroft enters, Molly Hooper is nowhere to be seen. 

Neither is John or Mary Watson, though the door to Sherlock’s bedroom is ever so slightly ajar. 

His brother is sitting in his usual spot however, a cup of tea in his hand. He’s wearing fresh clothes, no more of Molly Hooper’s blood staining him. A dark-haired woman is sitting opposite him, her back to the door and a small, curly-haired boy in her lap. 

At hearing the door open Sherlock looks up and the woman sets down the child, the boy turning eagerly, the woman showing more reluctance- 

Mycroft nods in greeting- he recognises the boy from the youtube video his brother sent him- before moving into the parlour. He aims to stand behind his brother, to hear what was so important he was summoned here on this of all days, but then he sees the woman’s face and he stops. 

Stares. 

For the first time in a long time he feels his mouth threatening to hang agog. 

For he recognises her, though he hasn’t seen her, in, oh, it must be at least thirty years. Not since just before he left for university and she disappeared off into a life of her own.  _ Not since before that last, ghastly scene on New Year’s Eve. _ She’s still tall and dark, he notes. Still striking-looking, rather than beautiful. Her eyes still seem to look right through him, and he still finds himself utterly struck by her presence. The sheer charisma she seems to exude. For a moment they stare at her, blue eyes looking into brown ones, and then he finds his voice. A lifetime of good manners forces him to extend his hand. 

“Prudence,” he says stiffly and the woman takes it. Nods. 

“Mikey,” she answers, her voice equally tense. She shoots Sherlock a quelling look, which he pointedly ignores and she rolls her eyes. “It’s- I didn’t think Will would call you- I asked him not to-”

“And  _ Will _ always does as he’s asked,” Mycroft points out archly, making Prudence snort. 

At being called by his boyhood name Sherlock scowls but then seems to think better of it. Rather than saying anything he stands, offers Mycroft a seat.  _ You could cut the tension in the room with a meat cleaver; Best that he sit down _ . As if they’d never been apart, Prudence moves to pick up the tea things, pours Mycroft a cup and then adds milk and sugar, just as he used to take it. 

She hands it to him promptly before turning her attention to the child, who’s started fiddling with the pot. 

“Micah,” she admonishes. “What did I tell you?”

The boy pouts. Crosses his arms over his chest and throws himself backwards onto the couch cushions with far more energy than the act deserves, a martyred sigh on his lips. For a moment Mycroft is reminded- sharply- of Sherlock as a child, something which tugs at his intuition, but then- 

“These people are helping us,” the boy says. He sounds like he’s parroting someone. “We don’t act up around people who are helping us- And if we do we get a clip around the ear.”

Prudence smiles warmly- a smile Mycroft remembers only too well- and presses a kiss to the boy’s dreadlocked hair. He scowls and fusses, which makes her smile widen. After a moment she tickles him and he squeals, his annoyance forgotten. His smile is sharply bright, his laughter loud. It suddenly occurs to Mycroft that he has the same quick-silver eyes that Sherlock inherited from their mother, despite his dark skin- 

He finds the thought… surprising. 

“Precisely,” Prudence is telling the boy. “And we also don’t act up around family, which is what Mikey and Will here are-”

Mycroft is bringing his tea up to his lips and at these words he sputters. Spits the tea out. The boy- Micah- lets out a cheerful whoop of laughter at the sight, bouncing on the sofa as Prudence rolls her eyes again and Sherlock snorts in amusement. As if on cue the door into the parlour opens and a younger, purple-haired woman walks out, frowning at the scene before her- “Mum,” she addresses Prudence, “Mum, what did you do?” 

A look at Mycroft and then, “Bloody hell, you told him, didn’t you? For God’s sake mum, did you even  _ warn  _ the man?”

Though Prudence must answer- “What would have been the point in warning him, love?”- Mycroft hears none of it. Just as he hears nothing of the- undoubtedly droll- commentary his baby brother provides. For when he looks at the woman who has just entered he gets his second shock of the day: She clearly has Prudence’s bright blue eyes, her tallness. Her bearing. 

She also clearly has his widow’s peak, forehead, and the Holmes’ family nose. 

The one Mummy’s so bitter about. 

The one _ Mycroft’s  _ so bitter about, not that he’d ever admit it. 

“Jesus Christ on a hobby-horse,” he swears and it’s a measure of how shocked he is that he doesn’t even try to glare at Sherlock for snorting. 

_ He knows he has to love Sherlock, but by God, he doesn’t have to like him.  _

“Not quite,” the younger woman says, moving forward and holding out her hand. Her eyes are somewhere between amused and sorry. It’s an expression Mycroft’s seen on his own mother’s face more than once. “‘I’m Lex-  Sorry, Alexandra Sigur Doyle, if you want to be technical about it. Which I suppose you will do, given all of… this.” She gestures helplessly with her other hand. She seems chagrined. Unsettled. 

Mycroft doesn’t blame her. 

“So you’re- you’re-” For once in his life Mycroft finds he can’t speak. All he can do is gesture vaguely to Prudence. 

Lex nods though. “Yeah, Pru’s my mum,” she says.“ And this is my son, Micah-” 

She nods to the boy, who stands. Tries belatedly to look well-behaved. 

“Micah,” she says, pulling him over to stand in front of her. “Micah, this is your grandfather: His name is..?”

As if of its own volition, Mycroft hears his own voice introduce himself. 

“Yes, well, this is all fascinating,” Sherlock cuts, standing, “but I’m afraid I really must check on Molly- You’ve got quite enough to be getting on with Mikey, what with the threats Prudence and Lex are getting-”

And with that he beats a hasty retreat, withdrawing into his bedroom and shutting the door firmly behind him, the bloody coward. Previous experience indicates that he will be hiding in there with his morgue mouse for quite some time. Mycroft is left staring at his, what?  _ His progeny? His family? _ And for once he can find nothing to say. Nothing at all, though it occurs to him, somewhat dimly, that Mummy is going to kill him. 

“You might as well start swearing now,” Lex tells him sagely and that’s precisely what he does- 

After he picks back up his tea and takes a fortifying sip, of course.

* * *

 

**_Meanwhile_ **

**_In Sherlock’s Bedroom_ **

_ They appear to have made her comfortable,  _ Sherlock thinks as he slips inside his room, glad to be out of the carnage behind him. 

Molly’s lying on his bed, her wrists and ankles bandaged, a blanket over her. She’s curled in on her side, apparently asleep. John’s sitting in a corner, conversing quietly with Mary but he looks up when his friend comes in. Walks over to him. 

“Everything alright out there?” he asks and Sherlock shakes his head, not ready to explain the particular madness outside until he has to. Given Mary’s abilities, he might not even need to: the family resemblance between Lex and his brother was so pronounced that he’d known as soon as he’d clapped eyes on her, before she explained about the threats she’d been getting since Micah made his youtube debut. 

“How is she?” he asks instead, rather than dwell on Prudence, Lex and the disturbing, indisputable proof that his brother has actually shagged at least one woman. Possibly more, which really doesn’t bear thinking about. 

He’s relieved when John takes the hint. Lets him change the subject. 

_ There’s a reason they’re so close.  _

“She’s been through a lot,” Watson is saying quietly. “There’s bruising. Damage to her throat and lungs from the water. Damage to her wrists and ankles from those plastic ties they used to keep her in the chair. Even though they released them once the tank filled, they’ve bruised and cut her- She’ll need an x-way to confirm it but I suspect her left wrist is fractured.”

Sherlock winces at the words but gestures for John to go on. 

As unpleasant as this is, Molly needs him to hear it. 

“There were traces of an hallucinogenic in her system too,” the doctor continues, “something designed to ramp up her panic, most likely. I’ve taken a sample of her blood-work and sent it to Anthea, rather than Barts-”

“So the hospital’s compromised?” Sherlock says and John nods. 

His expression darkens ominously. 

“The man who took her was a night porter there,” he says tightly. “She said she’d known him for more than six months- That he was someone she trusted.”

Sherlock grimaces and his friend nods in understanding. 

His own expression is just as harsh. 

“So this was planned,” John’s saying, “and it was planned for a while- We can’t know how many more are in on this without tipping them off, even if they haven’t legged it already-”

“Understood.” Sherlock’s not letting Molly anywhere near St. Barts until this is all over. _ In fact, after today he’s debating the merits of ever letting her out of his sight again _ . “Did she say anything else? Give any other clues?”

John and Mary exchange glances, and his annoyance spikes. 

“What is it?” he asks sharply. “Don’t do that marital tag-team thing with  _ me,  _ Mrs Watson-”

Mary’s smile is wry. “Because being cool and mysterious is your thing, yeah?” 

Sherlock’s look is unimpressed but he nods. “Of course- Copyright infringement doesn’t suit either of you.” Molly makes a small, moaning noise behind him in her sleep and immediately he sobers- They all do. 

Without a word Mary leaves the, pads over to the bed to check on her patient. 

Sherlock tells himself he shouldn’t be staring but he still does. 

“Molly says she saw Moriarty today,” John mutters, lowering his voice confidentially. He is clearly trying rather hard  _ not  _ to notice Sherlock staring at Molly. “He swears it was him, said she’d know because she did the autopsy-”

“She did,” Sherlock nods. “She cut the bastard open: I remember her telling me after I came back- She wanted me to know he was gone. She wanted to be sure of it, after all he’d done.” 

He looks at John, about to begin expounding on the likelihood that narcotics and panic had fueled Molly’s delusion. How this whole thing, beginning to end, as been played with more theatricality than even  _ he _ normally produces, that he’s no doubt this is just another piece of showmanship- 

He doesn’t get very far however, because at that moment Micah- his newfound grand-nephew- opens the door and informs him that, “Mum says you’re to haul your arse- There’s a thing on the telly you have to see.”

He and the Watsons scramble out of his bedroom to see Jim Moriarty’s face on their tv screen, which is, of course, when Molly wanders sleepily out of his room…  


	9. The Medium Is The Message

_ Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to devilgrrl, muse42, renniejoy, deby, MizJoely, Kyriadamorte and MerriWyllow. Enjoy! _

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHT: THE MEDIUM IS THE MESSAGE**

* * *

 

Sherlock doesn’t notice her at first, though Mary does. 

Considering the day she’s had Molly’s quite grateful for that. 

The blond woman turns as soon as she enters, watching her close the space between she and the television with quiet steps. Moriarty’s voice- grating, unwanted- is echoing through the room, asking once again whether the world at large missed him. (Molly’s certain it didn’t.) Asking Sherlock specifically whether he liked his little surprise. (She doubts he did- She certainly did not). 

The two women’s eyes meet and Mary gives Molly a small, tight smile of encouragement; Hooper nods back, understanding.  When Sherlock sees her he flushes guiltily, moving until he’s right in front of her, blocking her view of the tv screen. With gentle, uncertain hands he takes her by her arms, tries to lead her back to his bedroom- “You should get back to bed, Molly, you’ve no need to listen to-”

“I’m not made of glass, Sherlock,” she says quietly and he flushes, clearly annoyed. 

It feels oddly comforting, in a way his tenderness did not. 

“I know you’re not made of glass,” he snaps, “but you don’t need to give this bastard any more of your time-”

He gestures to the telly, where Moriarty is now singing a nursery rhyme.  _ It’s raining, it’s pouring, Molly is falling... _

For a moment her throat closes up, for a moment she’s in that glass coffin again. 

She forces her eyes shut, the memory of her ordeal intruding. “He’s taken my time, Sherlock,” she says. The words come out sounding curt. Stressed. “He’s taken quite a bit more from me that can’t be taken back-”

“He has taken nothing from you, Molly Hooper,” he says firmly. “You are a glory quite beyond his grasp- Please don’t believe anything else.”

And his hand finds hers; He smooths soothing circles on her wrist with his thumb. When her eyes snap open she finds he’s standing far closer than she thinks he ever has before. She frowns up at him, not sure what he’s trying to tell her; He’s biting his lip, his eyes on hers and it’s almost…Almost… 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Mycroft’s voice intervenes, his tone causing them to move apart as if scalded. 

It suddenly occurs to Molly that the Moriarty broadcast has cut out; Sherlock shoots his brother a filthy look but the elder Holmes is unimpressed. 

“Are you going to pay any attention to your supposed nemesis, brother mine?” he snaps, “or should we leave you and your morgue mouse to get on with things?”

“Mikey!” Sherlock snaps. Molly flushes at the insinuation in Mycroft’s tone and he steps between her and his brother; The look John and Mary exchange tells Molly she’s not imagining the belligerence in him. John stands, moves towards his friend before seeming to think better of it.

Sherlock throws him a look, a small shake of his head, and the army doctor halts, just near enough to intervene if necessary.  

“This isn’t anything new,” Sherlock tells Mycroft impatiently, gesturing to the screen. “He showed he can hack the BBC again, sang the nation a charming little ditty I happen to know he’s fond of and then railed off some numbers.” He snorts. “Hardly revelatory.”

“How would you know, if you’re making doe-eyes at your pathologist?” And Mycroft rocks back on his heels, looking smug. 

Sherlock’s smile turns sharp. Feral. 

“Am I wrong in what I’ve said?” Mycroft’s smile dims and Molly knows he’s not. “Besides,” Sherlock continues, “I’ve no need when Mary’s been recording the transmission on her phone- Haven’t you, Mary?”

And he shoots an insufferable smile at Mrs. Watson. 

“Yep,” she says, popping her Ps. Mycroft visibly shudders and her husband snorts in amusement. She gives the men in the room an almost sarcastically cheerful thumbs up, holding up the offending camera-phone. Sherlock takes it and sure enough, Molly can see a recording of Moriarty’s last broadcast playing on the screen, taken from the tv. 

“Pretty sure it’s standard procedure for your little worker elves on the Farm to record anything Moriarty sends too,” Mary’s saying, “including any embedded material they can glean- Not easy when you don’t have the original file but I’m sure there’s something they get from it. It is, after all, what they do.” She looks at Sherlock. “Satisfied?”

His smile is arch. “Never.”

Again she snorts. “That’s what I thought. But the numbers were-”

“AC873, OC 532 and UA 6864,” he speaks over her. Gives Molly a tight smile which becomes steadily more obnoxious when he turns it on his brother.  “As charming company as Doctor Hooper is,” he points out, “I  _ can _ listen to something and concentrate on her too. I’m gifted that way.”

And he shoots Molly a wink, just like he used to do when he was into some mischief. 

She knows it shouldn’t but it makes her feel better. 

“Oh, joy.” Mycroft snorts, looks like he’d really like to swear but at the last moment his eyes flicker to the other occupants of the room, people Molly doesn’t know. There’s a dark-skinned little boy with startlingly light blue-green eyes, a purple-haired woman with a mass of tattoos and piercings and an older, white-haired woman, all of whom are looking at the elder Holmes brother with varying degrees of curiosity. 

The white haired woman’s eyes are narrowed, her head cocked to one side, and when Mycroft meets her gaze he looks away. 

“Yes, well…” He clears his throat. Straightens his waistcoat. Suddenly he seems… diffident. 

Molly wonders why. 

“The numbers are clearly flight numbers,” he announces stiffly. The white-haired woman’s eyes narrow further, and to Molly’s surprise she sees Mycroft… blush? “We can assume that Moriarty- or rather, whoever is impersonating him- wants us to look at these particular flights for a reason-”

“Obviously.” Sherlock sounds bored and Mycroft’s expression darkens worryingly: To Molly’s surprise the white-haired woman leans over and whispers to the boy and, presumably, his mother, who stand and start searching for their coats. 

“We’d better be going, Mikey,” the woman says, pulling a long brown leather coat on. She winds a skull-covered scarf around her neck.. “Will can brief you on the case- I’ve put a copy of everything we’ve gotten electronically onto this.” 

And she hands Mycroft a battered USB drive; it’s shaped like a TARDIS and for some unknown reason he smiles faintly at her, something she returns. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Mycroft ignores him. Mary Watson looks at the woman with a new-found interest. 

“You’re sure it’s you they’re targeting, Pru?” Mycroft asks quietly and she nods. 

“Micah made his youtube debut a few weeks ago and the clip’s gone viral.” She shoots the boy, who is now being buttoned into his coat by his mother, a worried look. “He wasn’t supposed to end up online, not with, well, with who his grandfather is- But the threats didn’t start until after the first Moriarty broadcast. I don’t like the timing on that.” She and the purple-haired woman share a look. “Neither does Lex.”

“Quite.” Mycroft looks like there’s more he wants to say but before he can Pru calls to Sherlock, tells him to walk her and her family down to the street. By this time she and her party are bundled up in their coats and ready to go. 

“But why?” Sherlock asks petulantly. “Outside is all… outsidey.There may be rain. And wind. And  _ people. _ And there are stairs- Why would I want to walk down  _ stairs _ if I didn’t have to?”

Pru’s tone is long-suffering. “Because I asked you to,” she says simply. He rolls his eyes and a small smile softens her face. “Besides, how can I talk to you about your brother and-” her eyes flicker to Molly, then away- “ _ other things  _ while everyone’s in the room? 

Do try to be sensible, Will- Gossip requires privacy.”

And she opens the door. Makes a shooing motion towards the landing. Sherlock must find her logic sound because he gives Molly’s hand a final squeeze and then steps out of the flat, leading the small party down the stairs towards the front door. He and Pru speak quietly as they go, heads bent together. 

Mycroft watches the party with an odd look on his face, one Molly can’t quite characterise. 

By this time he’s buttoned himself into his coat, has picked up his trusty umbrella; It reminds Molly somewhat of a knight putting on his armour, though she’s not sure why.  

“I have things to do,” he announces to the room at large, “and people to talk to.” He throws a look at Molly, one which is distinctly unimpressed. “Try not to distract my brother to too lethal an extent while I’m gone, there’s a good girl,” he says and with that he sweeps out, leaving the Watsons and Molly alone in Baker Street, wondering what the Hell was going to happen next-

By the time Sherlock arrives back into the parlour, Mary has announced that she and John are heading out to get some take away and will be gone, “for yonks.” 

The look she shoots Molly leaves her in no doubt about the reasoning behind this decision but though she understands it, she finds she can’t imagine what will happen once they’re gone. 


	10. The World Puts On A New Face

_Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to renniejoy, MizJoely, devilgrrl and ChiefDoctor. Slight change of pace for this one- everyone has to catch their breath- but don't worry. It's back to the breakneck speed next chapter. Enjoy!_

* * *

**CHAPTER NINE: THE WORLD PUTS ON A NEW FACE**

* * *

 

As soon as the door closes behind the Watsons Sherlock finds himself lost for words.

He just turns and, and stops. Stares. _Fidgets._ He finds himself looking at Molly, in a way that even he allows is so rude it’s practically ogling.

In his defence though, she’s staring back at him, just as hard. Just as obviously.

_He’s not entirely sure she’s aware she’s doing it, but then she seldom is._

Rather than pursue _that_ thought he opens his mouth, as she does; they then both close with a simultaneous snap, turning away from one another. Molly wanders towards the kitchen and returns a moment later, a cup of tea in her hands; when she sees Sherlock notice she flushes.

“Sorry,” she says quietly. “I didn’t ask. D’you-”

“I can make it.” He speaks over her and dammit, he sounds nervous. Unsure. He can tell by the look on her face that she heard it too. It was easy when the Watsons and everyone was here; he knows how to behave in company. But this… this quietness? He has no experience with that.

 _He doesn’t know how he feels anymore, alone with her in the room_.

So, rather than give Molly the chance to ask a question he walks towards the kitchen, helps himself to a cup of tea from the still-hot teapot and then pulls out a packet of biscuits. Walks back and puts them in front of Molly before sitting down beside her on the couch, at a suitable distance away.

Any closer and he fears… He fears he’d find it distracting.

He’s not sure why but he fears it’s so.

Molly’s eyes track his movements as he goes, though she says nothing. Once he’s been seated for a moment she reaches out and takes a chocolate digestive from the packet, gingerly dipping it into her tea before biting. She chews, her throat works beautifully as she swallows (not that Sherlock notices). Her tongue darts out to scoop up any stray crumbs, her thumb ghosting against her lip.

She doesn’t look at Sherlock as she does it, which is probably for the best.

He doesn’t want to have to explain the expression she might see.

So he forces himself to turn away from her. Stop staring. It’s been a bloody long day- exile, return from exile, Moriarty-hunting, _Molly_ -hunting, discovering Mycroft’s reproduced without the use of cloning technology, not to mention Prudence’s rather too pointed questions on the stairs- and now that he’s seated Sherlock tells himself he just wants to retreat into his mind palace and start sorting through all the clues his erstwhile nemesis is apparently intent on leaving him.  So it’s with great surprise that he hears his own voice ask, “are you… well?” in that same ridiculously hesitant tone.

Molly blinks at him. “I am.” She looks down into her cup, still chewing on her lip, before dunking her biscuit into the hot liquid again. Another bite. Another lick. Her thumb doesn’t go to her louth this time. “Thank you,” she says after a moment. “For, you know, for saving me-”

“I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you.”

“I know that-”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” Her tone is certain. Warm. A beat, but then…  “Did you think that I didn’t? Didn’t know?”

“Yes.” He takes a huff of breath. Rakes his hand through his hair. He doesn’t remember deciding to talk about this, but- “The last time you saw me you slapped me.”

“Yes, well…” She blanches. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“You were angry-”

“I was.”

“You were frightened?” He thinks he understands, and she winces but nods.

“I was that too.”

This admission brings a spark of something twisting and warm to Sherlock’s chest. Something alarming. He tells himself he doesn’t know what it is. “So you lashed out?” he guesses and again she nods.

“Sometimes caring about someone comes out that way-”

“I am aware.” _After all, he’s friends with John Watson._  The words have come out sounding annoyed though, impatient. Molly doesn’t take them to heart; Rather she smiles a little, like she’s worked something out, and takes another tea-soaked bite of her biscuit. She draws her knees up to her chest, her hands still wrapped around her mug. After a moment she shifts, winces, sore apparently, and without a warning Sherlock’s on his feet. Into his room and bringing out her painkillers. He plants them down on the table beside the biscuits and when she looks up at him in question he crosses his arms. “Take them.”

It’s a command.

It belatedly occurs to him how well ordering her about has gone the last few months but she says nothing, merely smiles that small smile again. Reaches out and takes two pills out of the bottle before knocking them back with a swig of her tea.

“Happy?” she asks and he nods.

“As I’ll be, with you like that.”

To his surprise she puts down her tea, reaches out her unhurt hand and takes his. It feels rather small against his fingers. She pulls him close and, after a moment’s resistance, he comes.

“It was bad,” she says, “but you saved me…”

“I had to,” he bites out. “It was my fault-”

“No.” She shakes her head stubbornly. Tightens her grip on his hand. She looks up at him and there’s something very bright, very certain in her eyes. “By that reckoning it was _my_ fault,” she points out. “I made the decision to help you all on my own, I knew this might be the result-”

Sherlock bites his tongue, wills the words that suddenly want to rise up back. The words which Prudence had all but confirmed for him on the stairs. The words which he’d seen, unspoken, in his brother’s eyes at the Icehouse. Because Molly hadn’t been taken because she helped Sherlock fake his death, Molly had been taken because her loss would have hurt him. His feelings for her appeared to be so obvious that apparently Agent Hunter and his entire security detail, not to mention a family friend he hadn’t seen in decades, could tell what he felt.

If they could tell then this Moriarty imposter could too. Had done, too, in all probability.

The thought makes him feel a little sick.

He doesn’t know what to say, what to do, and just like that she’s on her feet, her arms around him. Her comforting him, just like always, when it’s him who should be comforting her. Her small, warm form against his, her breath coming in time with his. Normally she’s hesitant to touch him- She seems to understand he dislikes it- but this time he welcomes it. Pulls her closer. _It’s a strange thing, to want to pull someone close and push them away at the same time_.

She lets out a long, sighing breath and the sound warms him in a way he doesn’t understand. Won’t understand.

_There’s so much he doesn’t want to understand, with her._

When she looks up at him, her eyes are sad. Uncertain, though trying for wry. “You’re being awfully nice to me,” she says and he nods. Looks down at her, blue eyes meeting brown ones. Harsh ones meeting kind.  

“It’s because I nearly lost the opportunity to do it,” he says, and though he knows he means his exile she thinks he means her kidnapping. He’s content to let her think that for now. _Maybe forever._  

“You’d have found me,” she’s saying again, her tone certain. “You’re Sherlock Holmes- Proper Genius- You’d have found me.”

“I would have.” But though he says the words, he knows that he can’t believe them true. The Moriarty imposter had wanted Molly found, that’s why the game had been so easy. Were this person to have had more time, or a different goal, he might have, he might have…

He might have lost her, Sherlock thinks. He might have lost his Molly.

He might even have lost her today without the Moriarty imposter’s interference, and that thought brings a ball of horrid, clawing emotion to his chest. It feels almost like the time he saw John nearly burned alive. Almost like the time last time he saw Prudence before today. He detests emotion and always has, the messiness of it. The explosiveness of it. He doesn’t want to feel this, to feel anything, and yet, and yet…

And yet, Molly’s in front of him. Molly’s _alive_. Molly’s been through a great deal and he can damn well hold himself together rather than going to pieces in front of her, he tells himself. That he can do, if it’s for her.

Oddly enough, this concern for another tames the sentiment within him. Curbs it.

He had no idea feelings could work that way but there you have it.

After a moment he clears his throat. Pulls away and gestures towards his bedroom. “You should get some rest,” he tells her. “I’ll call you when Mary and John get back with the food- And then we’ll have a chat about today”

She frowns at him, head cocked to one side as if she’s trying to read him, but at the last minute she shakes her head to herself. Lets go of his hand and walks towards the bedroom door. “You’ll be out here?” she asks and he nods, relieved.

“You may depend upon it,” he says  and with that she’s gone. She’s apparently content to let him guard her.

He finds that a suitable arrangement too.

He listens to her move around. Imagines her in his room, in his bed. It makes him feel strangely… satisfied. Territorial. He remembers the way Irene Adler’s perfume had clung to his sheets and wonders if Molly’s will do the same. When the Watsons return he calls to her but she’s fallen asleep and he bags up her food. Stores it away to be eaten tomorrow.

She’ll not be going anywhere for the next few days in anyways, he’s already decided.

Mary watches him with narrowed, knowing eyes but says nothing-

Until, that is, a supposed dead woman decides to text her phone, and then it’s all Sherlock can do to keep up with her and her husband.

* * *

 

**_Meanwhile,_ **

**_In a flat in Brixton_ **

Mycroft rings the doorbell and is faintly horrified when he’s greeted by the opening refrains of ABBA’s _Dancing Queen._

He is likewise horrified when the door creaks open and a suspicious-looking fourteen year old girl glowers out at him, the cheerful, bright beads on her cornrows at odds with the absolutely unimpressed expression on her face.

She looks him up and down as if he’s nothing more than a prize bull at a country fair.

Mycroft pulls himself up to his full height and looks down at her, eyebrow cocked. _He is, after all, The British Government_. “I’m here to see Prudence,” he says. “This is her flat, isn’t it?”

The girl merely shrugs. Called over her shoulder to Pru that, “your taste in men is getting worse, mate,” before shuffling off.  

Still, when Prudence comes to the door she opens it. Offers to let him in. He declines his head courteously, gestures to the car he brought here which Anthea is currently guarding like a hawk.

“I rather thought we might go for a drive,” he said. “There’s things I’d rather discuss with you in private.”

Pru sighs at that before nodding and grabbing a cardigan, stuffing her mobile into her pocket. She tells the girl- Hailee- to watch her brother and then follows Mycroft into the night.

“Just don’t bring me straight to your mother’s,” is what she says as she gets in. “I’d appreciate a drink first, if that’s the plan.”

Mycroft looks at her like she’s insane. “Do you think I’d do that sober, woman?” he asks as he joins her and with a nod to Anthea they pull out into the night.


	11. Family Business

_ Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to deby, MizJoely, ChiefDoctor and devilgrrl, hope you enjoy the latest :-) And happy holidays! _

* * *

**CHAPTER TEN: FAMILY BUSINESS**

* * *

 

**_221B Baker Street_ **

**_Three Rings Later_ **

For a moment all Mary can hear is heavy breathing, nothing else. 

The call is coming from an unrecognised number but though she’s cautious, she figures it might be the Moriarty imposter trying to get in touch; the least she can do is listen. 

Her patience is about to run out when she hears the breathing halt then speed up. She can hear footsteps running on what sound like wood too. There’s the distant sound of wind and of men running, of men shouting, the harsh snap of what might be gunfire, and then-

She hears Agent Hunter’s voice, she’s certain of it. 

She sounds like she’s been screaming and given whose custody she’s in Mary’s not at all surprised. 

“51-stop-53-stop-58,” Hunter breathes. “N27642W- That’s all I could get. I’ll try again if I can-”

With that the phone on the other end of the line must be dropped; Mary hears the sound of it crashing into the floor. Hears distant feminine screams which she presumes are Hunter’s. 

There are three more gunshots, much closer and louder this time and then the line cuts out.

* * *

 

**_Meanwhile_ **

**_Somewhere on the road to Mummy and Daddy Holmes’ House_ **

There’s an odd… timelessness to being driven at night, Mycroft always feels. 

Something about the darkness outside the car, the whisper of the road beneath you. You could be anywhere, any time. You could be anyone too, he often thinks, though he seldom allows himself to ponder so seductive a thought as  _ that _ . When one drives oneself, the faculties are engaged. One must pay attention. React. It’s a doing thing, driving, his father has always told him. Being driven, on the other hand, especially by someone he trusts as he trusts Anthea… 

That’s something else entirely. 

As he thinks this he catches his protege’s eye in the rear-view mirror, takes in the carefully blank expression on her face.  _ She’s giving nothing away _ . He then turns to look at Prudence, draining his whiskey tumblr. (Hers is already empty). Her profile is illuminated softly by the vehicle’s lights: She’s aged well, but then he knew she would. Her mother hadn’t looked her years when she first came to work for the Holmeses, all those years ago. Even now he can see Lily Doyle in her daughter’s features: The same stubborn mouth. The same upright posture. The Doyle women always walked like royalty, even if they were scrubbing floors- 

“You’re staring.” Prudence voice is quiet. Amused.

Mycroft cocks an eyebrow at her. 

“You’ve given me quite the shock tonight,” he says, his tone arch. Studiedly careless. “Ought a man not stare, when he’s in a situation such as mine?”

She turns to him and her lip quirks up into a small smile. It reaches her eyes and just like that, Mycroft could be all of eighteen again, watching her in fascination as she runs Sherlock through his violin scales, or discusses some mystery with his father while she polishes cutlery. _ It’s bewitching, that smile _ . “Were you really surprised?” she asks and when he nods her expression dims. “So you didn’t suspect? About Lexie-?”

“Do you think you’d have been running around the country like a bloody vagabond with  _ my  _ daughter, if I had known?” 

He doesn’t mean for the words to come out quite so harshly, but he can find no help for it. 

Pru being Pru however, merely folds her arms, her expression turning mulish- another familiar development. Mycroft suspects his own face mirrors her. 

_ A match for you, Mikey, that’s what his mother had called her, and looking at her now he knows Mummy was right.  _

“You  _ said _ you didn’t want children,” she points out, eyes narrowed. There’s not an ounce of contrition in her voice. “You  _ said _ you’d never reproduce, you  _ said _ that’s what your parents had their youngest for-”

“Well I did bloody reproduce, didn’t I?” he snaps. “And you  _ said _ nothing of it. Not a bloody word. You just disappeared off into the great blue yonder and left me-”

“Left you?” She speaks over him, her voice disbelieving. “You’re the one who told me to go, Mikey. You’re the one who swore you didn’t want a woman in your life. You’re the one who was shagging Alan Tompkins by the bike sheds when you were supposed to be going out with me-”

And to Mycroft’s surprise, he hears a catch in her voice. Sees her pulse jump at her throat, her hands clenching at her side. From force of habit he catelogues her reactions, searching them for signs of artifice, but he finds none. _ She still… She still…  _

After all these years, neither of them has changed overmuch, he realises. 

“It still… pains you? What happened?” 

He hates the soft, hesitant way the question comes out. It’s practically dripping in sentiment- weakness- And yet… 

Prudence sighs, closes her eyes and squeezes the bridge of her nose. 

For a moment she is silent, but then- 

“It hurt,” she says simply. “Though I suspect it’s the memory that hurts now, more than the thing itself.” He inclines his head curtly, allowing the truth of the statement, and she turns to look at him, her eyes clear. Sharp. “Besides, it worked out for the best,” she continues. “I got Lex out of it. Don’t you want to know about her?” 

Mycroft doesn’t need to be told the past is being put firmly behind them- Though if Prudence thinks he’ll give up so easily as that, she has another thing coming. 

He knows that coaxing tone of voice, just as he knows how to deal with it. 

“I should like to know about Alexandra, and my grandchild,” he replies smoothly. “But I’m afraid there’s a rather more vexing question which you shall have to answer first.” Again the mulish look comes back but to be fair to Pru, she doesn’t squirm. “Can you tell me  _ why  _ you didn’t deign to inform me that I had become a father?” he asks sweetly. “Or are you intent upon making this farce of an evening even more difficult than it has been?”

Mycroft knows his smile is vulpine.

Pru shifts, her posture for the first time turning nervous. Discomfitted. “You won’t like the answer,” she says warily. 

“Try me,” he retorts. 

For a moment she looks like she’s going to argue and he feels it, that torque of excitement, of competition which he always felt with her, but then- 

She straightens up. Looks him right in the eye. “I didn’t want you to do to Lex what you did to Will,” she says quietly. 

Quite without his meaning to, Mycroft feels himself take a sudden, sharp breath; He dimly realises that Anthea just matched him. 

“What is  _ that _ supposed to mean?” he asks and there’s no anger in his voice. No rancour. His tone is surprisingly even. 

_ Those who know him well would be very, very frightened right now.  _

Prudence though, she seems to be gaining confidence. Perhaps speaking of his brother is making her cocky. 

“You know damn well what I mean,” she says quietly. “You’re a lot of things, Mikey, but you’re not deaf. I’m talking about what you told him after Sherrie died, I’m talking about all that nonsense you fed him about how alone protects him, about how sentiment is a defect found in the losing side-”

“It is.” The words are snarled and he feels somehow dismayed at the sudden hiss of anger which sparks within him, the feel of it out of control. Dangerous. Frightening. _ He hasn’t been frightened of anything,  _ he tells himself, _ not since he was fourteen years old, and he’s not bloody frightened now.  _  If Prudence senses her danger she gives no sign; rather his reaction seems to embolden her. 

As always she goes rushing in where angels fear to tread. 

“I couldn’t bear it,” she’s saying. “I couldn’t bear the thought of you taking our child-  _ my _ child- and making them, making them ashamed of their heart. Ashamed of their feelings. I couldn’t bear to watch you turn my flesh and blood into an automaton like you did with Will-”

“I’m not the one who made him an addict though, am I?” He sneers at her. “So if we’re examining our consciences, I rather doubt I’m the chief malefactor here.”

The words are hissed. Cold. Vicious. Mycroft knows too that they’re unfair- deeply unfair- but right now he’s too livid to care.There are few beings indeed who can cut him to the quick but the woman beside him is in their number and as always happens when blood is drawn, Mycroft strikes back twice as hard and fast.  

_ It’s how he’s survived this long. It’s how he’ll survive tomorrow.  _

Let her be reminded of the consequences of her meddling in his brother’s affairs- Everyone else is still living with them, not least her precious Sherlock. 

Prudence’s eyes have widened, hurt cracking across her face and making her look painfully vulnerable. She recoils slightly and again her hands clench into fists at her side, though for a moment they look more like she’s making a fist. More like she’s going to strike Mycroft, and on some level he knows she might well do. But at the last minute she leans back, turns from him. She presses her palms down on her thighs, forcing her fingers out. Straightening them, working the tension away. Silence reigns as both of them breathe heavily, neither one looking at the other as they try to master their respective tempers, never an easy task for either of them, but then-

Mycroft’s phone sounds loudly in the silence, making them both jump. 

With a muffled curse he pulls it out and checks the screen, sees he’s being called by Mary Watson, may God have mercy on his soul. 

Manners dictate that he should apologise for taking the call but he’s as yet too angry with Prudence, still, to speak to her. 

Rather he accepts the call silently and puts the phone to his ear. 

“Speak,” he says tersely. “This had better not be about your baby’s christening again-”

“Aw Mikey,” he hears the woman answer. “What’s the matter? Have I called at a bad time?” Though the words are conciliatory, the tone is teasing. Mocking, almost. It’s like speaking to his brother, if Sherlock had a better grasp of espionage and an (admittedly impressive) set of breasts to call his own. 

Rather than rising to the bait in her tone, however, Mycroft sighs. 

“I’ve had a long day,” he says. “We all have. Let’s not beat about the bush, eh, Mrs. Watson?”

Suddenly she’s all business. “Do you have a pen?” she asks and, without his even asking Anthea hands a pen and paper to Prudence though her eyes remain glued to the road.

As always, Mycroft wonders at her attention to detail, not to mention her deductive skills. 

“Take these down,” Mary’s saying. “51-stop-53-stop-58. N27642W.”

Mycroft frowns. “That’s the-”

“I know,” Mary speaks over him. “That’s the coordinates of the GCHQ headquarters in Cheltenham. We’re already on our way- Meet you there.”

And with that she hangs up, heaving Mycroft swearing once more (though he manages to do so under his breath this time). 

“Where to, Sir?” Anthea asks, her eyes on Pru; if he didn’t know better, he’d think her slightly worried. 

Before Mycroft can order her to escort Prudence to his parents’ house however, he, his driver and the entire British intelligence community receive their second nasty shock of the day. 


End file.
